My Father's Keeper
by Vampire-Badger
Summary: At sixteen, Desmond runs away from his abusive father. At twenty five they reunite, and things are no better than they were when Desmond was a child. But when the apple offers him a chance at revenge, William ends up as a child, his memories missing and completely defenseless. What happens next isn't easy. For anyone.
1. (Part 1)Temptations

**Blanket warning for the rest of the fic: mentions of physical and emotional child abuse**

-/-

Desmond is four years old the first time his father hits him.

It's an accident (this time), a glancing blow during a training fight Desmond is really too young to be a part of. His father had insisted, though, and he's used to getting his way. No son of his is going to fall behind in his training- Desmond is going to be the best of his age mates, whether he wants to or not. It is assumed that he will be stronger, faster, _better_ than the other children on the Farm. It's his _destiny_, Desmond's father explains, to be great because his father is the mentor and his mother is a master assassin. He calls the backhand to Desmond's face a war injury, and so Desmond wears his bruises with pride until they finally fade and vanish.

The second time his father hits him, Desmond is seven and knows there is no grand destiny in his future. Maybe his father knows it too, which is why he corners Desmond after one day after a particularly bad training session, looking angrier than Desmond has ever seen him. He rants and yells for a while, but Desmond is tired and sore and not really paying attention. Not until his father pushes him against a wall with all his strength, so hard that Desmond bangs his head on concrete and sees stars. Somehow, it doesn't break anything, but Desmond is left curled on the ground sobbing and clutching the sore spot on his head that won't stop throbbing. His father snaps at him to pull himself together and man up, but Desmond only cries harder.

Eventually, his father walks away, clearly disgusted, and all Desmond can do is watch him go. Until this day, Desmond had thought his father could do no wrong. He puts him on a pedestal, worships the ground he walks on, does everything and anything he can to please the man. His dad is an assassin, practically a superhero- until this day, when Desmond learns there is no such thing as heroes. From this point on, the world is a smaller, sadder, less hopeful places. Desmond loses something that day, and he never gets it back.

The third time his father hits him, Desmond is ten. The years have been cruel, and while it's been ages since his father has turned to actual violence, Desmond has gotten used to being shouted at and blamed for everything that goes wrong around him. If that were all he ever saw of his father, Desmond would be able to adjust. He could hate the man in peace, without worrying about things getting complicated. But between the bouts of almost irrational anger, Desmond sees flashes of the man his father is _supposed _to be. There are days when he smiles and offers his help in whatever Desmond is struggling with in his training, or tells exciting stories of missions he's been on.

Mostly, Desmond gets used to reading his father, judging his mood and knowing when it's best to hide and stay silent, and when it's okay to speak up. Usually, he's very good at this, but sometimes he makes mistakes. One day, Desmond guesses wrong, and dares to laugh at something that is (apparently) not meant to be a joke. This time, his father breaks his nose. It never quite heals right, and after that Desmond drops his eyes and looks away whenever he sees a mirror, because he can't stand the constant reminder of what his father has done.

This is about the time when the assassins start losing. The templars grow stronger, and the assassins grow fewer, and Desmond's father grows angry and mean. For five years, Desmond's life is one long parade of pain and abuse, with the only breaks coming when his father goes away on missions. He never says a word to anyone, because after all his dad is the mentor, and he's the screw up novice that everyone knows is a failure. No one would believe him even if they saw the abuse for themselves. Even Desmond's mother assumes the new injuries are from his training, and only sighs and shakes her head at each new bruise and broken bone. Then one day, when William comes home in a towering rage and looking for an excuse to beat Desmond black and blue, Desmond runs. He jumps out a window, climbs down a tree, and never looks back. It's more of a hobble than a run (he's sprained an ankle in the process), but for the first time in his life he's truly free.

The last time his father hits him, Desmond is twenty five and, finally, an assassin. He should have been past his old fears by now, but when his father's punch comes flying at him, some deeply ingrained instinct sends terror flooding through him- all Desmond can do is stand there and take it, because his entire childhood has served to convince him that fighting back will only make it worse.

When Shaun sees Desmond's bloody lip later, he makes a snide comment about how he must not be getting enough out of his animus sessions, if he's still getting his ass kicked by his dad. Desmond grits his teeth to keep from telling Shaun how hard it is just to keep climbing into the animus day after day, knowing he's completely vulnerable to whatever his father decides to do while Connor's memories convince his mind he's in the eighteenth century.

It used to be, when Desmond got up from the animus, that he would barely wait long enough for Rebecca to unplug him before jumping out and getting as far away as possible. He hates the machine, can't stand being in it, and the more distance he puts between himself and it, the better. Now he waits after each session, eyes clamped shut, pretending he's not awake yet so he can listen to what's going on around him and figure out his father's mood. He doesn't want to risk doing or saying anything that might land him on the wrong side of the man's temper.

And it burns him to be back in this old, familiar fear when he should have buried it long ago, but his father holds a power over him that no one else ever has or would, and if this reunion has taught Desmond anything it is that he can never escape. So he spends long minutes after every session lying on his back like the useless piece of _shit_ his father has always told him he is. When he's awake, he talks and laughs with the others, as if there's anything funny or normal left in the world, and keeps one eye on his father and the other (always) on the way out. Had the circumstances been at all different, Desmond would have run in a heartbeat and never looked back. If only there was someone else that could save the world…

But Desmond stays, and as the days and weeks crawl by he draws farther inside himself. He stops talking, hunches over when he stands, listens and does what he's told without speaking a word. When he sleeps, it's with his back to the wall, knees drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped around himself in some feeble grasp at protection.

His father doesn't hit him again. He doesn't need to- that first blow had been enough to utterly break Desmond, and undo almost a decade spent struggling to glue together the shattered fragments of confidence and self-worth. Every shouted insult or derisive sneer is enough to put him on edge, and he's constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop, knowing it's only a matter of time until his father decides he's done something wrong. So it's a relief, really, when Shaun announces that he's found another power source and Desmond's father volunteers to go alone to retrieve it. The whole world seems to open up and become a place worth living in- Desmond sags in relief and remembers to breathe again.

And then comes the news that Abstergo has managed to capture him. They send a video, Vidic babbling in the background, smug and sneering in his puffed up sense of self importance. Desmond barely hears him, staring at his father's face instead. There's a burning anger there, something Desmond has seen directed at himself far too many times to believe it could be meant for anyone else now. For a horrible minute he imagines just leaving his father there, imagines the freedom that would come from not having to look over his shoulder anymore. The only thing that stops him is knowing that his father _is _going to get out, somehow. It's too much to hope that this is the end, and Desmond just doesn't have that kind of lucky. If Desmond sits here now without even trying to help, his father is going to be _pissed _when he does come back.

"We have to go get him."

The words slip out before Desmond can fully make up his mind to say them, and then it's too late to pull them back.

"Are you serious?" Shaun demands.

"It's dangerous," Rebecca protests.

"They're asking for the apple!" Shaun adds, looking at Desmond like he's just completely lost his mind.

"He wouldn't want you to risk your life going after him," Rebecca says and then they both go quiet and look at him, Shaun clearly annoyed and Rebecca wide eyed in concern.

"Yea, he would," Desmond says softly, because if there's one lesson he's really learned well over the past twenty five years, it's that he is expendable while his father is not.

"Okay," Rebecca says, after a long moment of consideration. "If it's that important to you, we can get him back." And then she gives Desmond a look that he can't stand, clearly impressed with his decision, like he's doing something noble by risking death to bring his father home. It makes him feel sick to his stomach, because this isn't heroism, it's fear. But he swallows back his bile and manages to mumble a "thank you" before turning away.

He doesn't sleep well that night, but he curls up on his sleeping bag and pretends anyway so he won't have to face the other two until morning.

-/-

They have no choice but to fly to Italy. They're in a hurry, and it's not like the assassins have endless transportation options. Besides, Abstergo already knows exactly where they're going, so too much sneaking around would just be a waste of time and effort.

On the plane, Desmond sits wedged between Shaun and Rebecca, with nothing to look at or think about or do. The other two try more than once to engage him in conversation, but Desmond answers with one or two words if at all, and eventually they give up.

They travel light, because they have no idea if they'll have to run or hide after getting to Rome. Desmond wears his hidden blades, carefully smuggled through security, but other than that they have no weapons on them. Each one carries a set of false papers, Shaun's holding an extra one for Desmond's father when (if) they get him back. They have no checked baggage, and Desmond is the only one with a carryon. His backpack stays tucked under the seat in front of him during the entire flight, empty except for the apple, but he imagines he can feel the weight of the thing pressing against his mind.

The thing _whispers _to him, all the time. Not quite in words, but clearly enough for Desmond to know exactly what it promises. Power, control of his own life, control of _everyone's _life. Safety, a way to run from his father. Or, if he wants, to make him pay…

He could…

He could do anything he wants.

But that would be wrong. He doesn't want to let the apple have what it wants, because that's a road he might never come back from. In the animus, he's seen what happens to men that think the apple can be used as a tool to reshape the world in their favor. He does not want to become like them.

Nobody stops them at the airport, and nobody stops them as they travel to the Abstergo building, either. Shaun almost does, getting progressively more nervous during their half hour drive, to the point where he almost turns them around more than once. Somehow they manage to get there in one piece, and Desmond leaves the other two at a safe distance before going in himself.

He uses the front door.

It feels like he's walking to his death, the way everyone he passes scrambles desperately to get away from him. They know what's coming, and they want to be as far away as possible when it happens. But when security finally shows up, Desmond has no problem at all getting rid of them. It's not until he gets to his old prison on the top floor where Vidic is holding his father that Desmond stops dead in his tracks, suddenly and completely afraid. Faced with the sight of his father and Vidic in the same room, his brain gives up all attempts at rational thought, giving in to an almost animalistic fear.

With numb fingers, he pulls off his backpack, unzips the pocket, and pulls the apple out before letting the bag drop to the floor. With the apple in his hands, the whispering seems to suddenly get louder, more insistent, and he so desperately wants to just give in and do as it says.

He holds it up, trembling a little. Vidic is giving him orders and the apple is hissing and whispering in his mind and his father is glaring, just _glaring _at Desmond, and he knows he's done something wrong but doesn't know what it is. Vidic shouts a last impatient command and Desmond _breaks_. He can't deal with his father and the apple and Vidic all at once, so he lets go of whatever's keeping the apple in check.

Golden beams appear from nowhere, not quite real but solid enough to go flying at Vidic and his men, to impale them on lances of insubstantial light. They don't die quickly, but Desmond doesn't let up, doesn't pull back until their screams fade away and they're dead on the ground. When he looks up, face lit by the eerie glow of the apple in his hand, he and his father are the only two left alive in the room. The light starts to fade, and Desmond half collapses against the nearest wall. He can't quite make himself let go of the apple, but his fingers only cling to it weakly. There is no strength left in him.

"Desmond!" his father snarls. "What are you doing here?"

"I…" he stares, not really comprehending. "I came to rescue you? I thought-"

"My life is not worth risking the apple," his father snaps. "How could you be such an idiot? You risked _everything_."

And that's not the end of the rant, but it's the last Desmond hears as the apple pushes farther into his exhausted mind, urging him to hit back, to _punish_, just this once. The apple tells him that he's put up with shit like this for his entire life, and just this once, his father deserves to pay.

And he does as it says. The apple practically sings in response to his call, surging up and flooding him with more power than he has ever imagined. It's- he laughs, throwing back his head and cackling like a madman. He is heedless of how he must look, surrounded by dead men with his father looking on in horror. All that matters is that this feels better than anything he has ever felt before, and he doesn't hesitate another moment before bring that power to bear.

Desmond screams in mindless, horrible anger, turning suddenly on his father. Twenty five years of pent up rage and fear and hurt, burying it deep, or turning it against himself (because it's easier to believe he is stupid and useless than to think that his father will never love him), it all turns inside out. In that moment, Desmond hates his father more than he has ever hated anyone, even himself, and he wants him to suffer exactly as Desmond has suffered. The light from the apple flares, brighter and brighter, and then just as it reaches its peak, Desmond blacks out.

His dreams are red (like blood) and dark (like night). They terrify him.

The dreams seem to last forever, but eventually he wakes up. He's sprawled on the ground, apple still wrapped tightly in one hand. Desmond forces himself to his feet, stumbling a bit before he finds his balance. The apple's whispering has quieted now that he's given it what it wants, and with its influence waning Desmond starts to feel sick with the thought of what he's just done. There are bodies everywhere, and the air stinks of blood. There's no sign at all of his father, though, and Desmond takes this as a bad sign.

He takes a few steps farther into the room and hears a small, startled breath like someone gasping. It comes from behind the animus, so Desmond directs his steps in that general direction. He comes around the side and…

And stops dead, horrified by the sight in front of him. There's a little boy, maybe somewhere between seven and ten years old, but deceptively small and skinny. He's sitting with his back to the animus, knees pressed tight to his chest, trembling with the intense desire to stay small and silent and invisible. Desmond recognizes the pose, because he'd adopted it many times himself when he was younger. And he recognizes the boy's face, because even in this impossible, unbelievable form, it is still his father's.

"Oh, God," Desmond whispers. He remembers what he'd been thinking when he released the apple's power, and looks at the terrified, tiny child at his feet, and he connects the dots. He'd wanted to make his father feel the same fear and pain he'd suffered through as a kid, and the apple had given him exactly that. Only he'd never meant- he hadn't really _wanted- _"Dad, I'm so sorry… I didn't mean-" He takes two steps forward and holds his hand out, but the boy makes a choked, sobbing noise and scrambles away, leaving Desmond reaching for empty air.

"Come on," Desmond urges, because this isn't the time to figure out why this had happened or how to undo it. He'd taken out a lot of guards on the way up, but there had to be more on their way. "Please?"

But the boy clearly doesn't want to go anywhere near him, shoulders shaking as he sobs and presses himself as close to the edge of the animus as possible. Desmond thinks of the guards that are definitely on their way up by now, considers the child in front of him, and hates himself a little more for what he's about to do. Very slowly, he straightens up, never once shifting his gaze from the terrified little figure at his feet. He calls to mind the tone his father has always used on him, the one he's never dared to disobey because he knows the consequences would be terrible. It's always worked on him, and if he's given his father all his pains and fears, it should work on him, too.

"You _will_ come here this second," he says, and the boy flinches visibly at the steel in his voice. "Or else I _will _leave you here for the templars to find. Do you understand me?"

The boy squeaks and jumps to his feet, scrambling after Desmond with impressive speed given his size. Desmond pauses long enough to put the apple back in his bag, then he takes a deep breath and heads for the door. "Follow me," he says, but Willam only hesitates and shakes his head. "Come on!" Desmond urges. He can actually hear footsteps outside, now. When William still does nothing, he grabs him by the back of his neck, hard enough to hurt, not hard enough to leave a mark, and steers him through the door just in time to miss the guards coming from the other direction.

The first time Desmond hits his father, he's twenty five years old and it makes him feel like a monster.


	2. (Part 1)Reversal of Fortune

There's no time for questions when Desmond, now carrying his tiny, child sized father wrapped in his arms, gets to the van where Rebecca and Shaun wait for them. That doesn't keep them from asking them anyway, frantic, panicked questions spilling from them as they stare at the impossibility that is William Miles. Eventually, Desmond has to raise his voice just to be heard over the two of them, shouting that they need to get going because Abstergo is going to come after them soon.

Shaun puts the van in gear and hits the gas with so much enthusiasm that the others are thrown around like shifting cargo. Desmond puts one hand out to brace himself, and William takes the opportunity to squirm away from his loosened grip and escape. He stumbles to the other side of the van, presses himself into a corner and slides down until he forms the smallest possible target. Rebecca watches him move, then turns her wide eyes on Desmond. "What happened in there?" she asks. "How did he get… like that?"

There's a split second when Desmond considers telling her the truth. Then he imagines trying to explain how badly he'd wanted to see his father suffer for what he'd done, and cowers away from the mental image. She would be angry- she wouldn't understand. "I don't know," he lies. "I used the apple while I was in there, to take care of Vidic and the men he had with him. Then I passed out, and when I woke up he was like that."

"You used the apple?" Shaun demands. "Why?" When Desmond doesn't answer, he scoffs and turns his attention back to the road, mumbling something under his breath that sounds definitely rude.

"No wonder he's so scared," Rebecca says. "I would be too, that thing is terrifying." She studies William thoughtfully for a minute. "Do you think he remembers anything? He looks… I don't know. Small."

"Dunno," Desmond mumbles. "You should ask him."

"Maybe it would be better if _you-_"

"I can't talk to him," Desmond says.

"Can't, or won't?"

"Won't, I guess," Desmond says. Rebecca opens her mouth to argue, but changes her mind. Instead, she turns her back on him and bends over William, Desmond can just barely hear them over the metallic sounds of the van clattering over potholes, For a while, he focuses on ignoring them (he doesn't want to deal with this, not now and not ever), but eventually the shame of what he's done gets bad enough to overwhelm his reluctance. He wants to know exactly how much harm his actions have done.

"...feeling okay?" Rebecca is saying quietly.

"'m okay," William says. He's opened up a little, unfolded so that he's sitting cross legged in front of Rebecca instead of pressed against the wall. He glances over at Desmond, catches him looking, and scoots closer to Rebecca. "Who's that guy?" he whispers.

"That's Desmond," Rebecca says, after a nervous look over her shoulder at Desmond, who says nothing. "You don't remember him?"

"I don't…" William barely manages to force the words out, and his voice is wet and choked with tears. "I don't _remember_..."

"Becca," Desmond calls, and William flinches at the sound as Rebecca gets up and crosses the van toward Desmond.

"What did you do to him?" Rebecca demands before Desmond can say a word.

Desmond doesn't answer this question. Instead, he points out the (comically overlarge) clothes William is wearing. "You need to take his clothes off."

"Sure," Rebecca says, startled out of her anger. "Eventually we'll need to find something that fits better, but-"

"No," Desmond interrupts. "You need to get his clothes off _now_, and look for injuries. Probably it'll be mostly bruises, but there might be some fractured and broken bones, too. Maybe something else."

"From Abstergo?" Rebecca asks, and Desmond lets her make the assumption. She gives him a weird look, but walks over to William and slowly coaxes him out of his shirt. After several long minutes, he's standing there mostly naked with every injury exposed for the rest of them to see.

And there are a lot. Rebecca gasps as she takes it all in, but Desmond stays quiet. He's seen worse than this, seen the marks on his own body. So he surveys William with a more critical eye, looking for injuries that need immediate attention. There's one on his ribs that looks really bad, and now that Desmond's really looking he sees that William is holding one hand awkwardly. Most likely, that means broken fingers.

"What the fuck, Desmond?" Rebecca demands. "What happened to him?"

Desmond looks at William, at his too thin body, and the bruises of various stages of healing that cover him, at his broken fingers, and at the haunted look on his face. "That," he says quietly, "Is what happens when someone much bigger than you makes you their punching bag for a very long time."

"But-" Rebecca puts her head in her hands, gripping tightly like that will somehow force the world to make sense again. "That's not possible!"

"Why not?"

She looks up at him. 'Because he's been a child for- what, an hour?"

"Thanks to the apple," Desmond says. "That thing's not even _allowed _to make sense."

Rebecca looks back at William- the boy sits where she'd left him, eyes pointed at the ground. The fingers of his uninjured hand run over the knuckles of the other, a nervous gesture that Desmond knows from experience will do lasting harm. He rubs absentmindedly at the bump on his right ring finger, where an old break had never quite healed right.

"He looks so… pitiful," Rebecca says quietly.

"Don't," Desmond snaps, more forcefully than he'd meant. "Don't pity him, he doesn't deserve it."

William flinches, but otherwise moves not at all in response to Desmond's voice, like the words themselves don't surprise him at all. Rebecca doesn't restrain herself, though, putting her hands on her hips and narrowing her eyes to glare at him. "Keep your voice down," she says. "No wonder he's scared of you, if you keep yelling like that."

"You don't understand," Desmond says, but he does drop his voice.

"I understand enough to know that you and your father can't get along," Rebecca says. "But listen, Desmond- this isn't the time to fight. He needs you right now, don't you see? Whatever happened between the two of you, there's no one else here. You're family."

Desmond shakes his head and turns away. This goes so far beyond her simplistic view of events that it's not even funny. His father had beaten him as long and enthusiastically as Desmond had been able to stand- and now he's somehow cursed his father to that same fate. He's not exactly sure which of them is the worse man after all this, but he's also not exactly sure he cares. It doesn't really matter, either. What does matter is what he's supposed to do now. He can't ignore this, because everything he's suddenly changed forever. But he can't figure out how to deal with the change.

He doesn't want to hate his father, but he does. He doesn't want to fear him, but he does. And he doesn't want to feel like his father has finally gotten the punishment he's always deserved…

But he does.

They drive for hours, aiming for a country with less templar influence, so they can get a flight back to the states. No one speaks much, but finally they stop in what looks like a quiet town in the middle of nowhere. Desmond has no idea which country they're in- they've driven for hours, and he hasn't paid much attention.

"You two stay here," Shaun says, gesturing between Desmond and William. "Rebecca and I will go buy clothes."

"Clothes?" Desmond demands. "You're leaving me-" alone, with him- "To go clothes shopping?"

"Yes," Shaun says. "Because yours are bloody and his won't fit him for at least another ten years."

"Oh."

"So stay here and try not to break physics any further, yea?" Shaun hops out of the van, followed several moments later by Rebecca.

A few minutes pass in absolute silence- Desmond watches without moving as William presses himself farther into his corner, like he's afraid Desmond will start hitting now that they're alone. He accidentally leans on his broken fingers and recoils in shock and pain, hissing out a sharp breath between his teeth and clutching his hand close to his chest. Desmond frowns and stands, reluctantly. William looks down as Desmond comes close. His whole body goes still, apart from an occasional shuddering spasm he doesn't seem able to control.

"Hey,' Desmond says. The word drops between them like a heavy stone- William says nothing. "Um…" this is hard, and Desmond hates having to do this, because on some level it means taking responsibility for what's happened. He wants to ignore the problem and just let it go away, but that's not going to happen. "Do you want to talk?"

A stupid question. William shakes his head.

"Let me look at your hand, at least," Desmond insists, and William- with obvious reluctance- holds it out. Desmond rests it on his left palm, and for a second he can't move, can't breathe, can barely even think. William's hand is so tiny compared to his own, fragile and small and twisted by his broken digits. It makes him angry to know that anyone could hurt a child like this. And once the anger has passed, a swirl of other emotions go swirling through is numb brain- guild, because technically he'd done this to William- sadness, because he'd suffered through injuries like this and worse when he was a kid- and anger, because neither of them deserves this.

But most of all he feels confused, because he doesn't know what to think anymore.

William shifts uneasily, snapping Desmond out of his fog. "Sorry," he mutters, and gingerly starts applying pressure to William's fingers. "Does this hurt?"

"Yea," William says, softly. Then he winces and shakes his head. "I mean- no. Not too much. Sorry."

"You don't need to apologize, Desmond says. "You're not in trouble. I just want to know where the break is so I can put on a splint."

He works as gently as possible, but he can tell it's still hurting William. In an effort to distract him, and because he's genuinely curious, Desmond starts asking questions. "How did you hurt your hand?" he starts.

"I-" William closes his eyes, brow furrowing in obvious effort. "It's hard to remember. Um… it was ark. Something about a door, I think." His eyes open, darting upward to meet Desmond's, then drop down. "Sorry, sir," he whispers. "I didn't mean to be so stupid."

"Don't call me sir," Desmond says, and absently reaches for the first aid kit that's always kept at the back of the van. He remembers (more clearly than William, apparently) how his fingers had been broken when he was fifteen. He'd been learning to pick locks, and in a fit of truly regrettable clumsiness, he'd actually broken both the pick and lock itself. It had been the middle of the night, pitch black because his father had insisted he would rarely work in daylight as an assassin. When the lock broke, he'd (very calmly) stood up, examined the door Desmond had been trying to unlock, and frowned. Then he'd kicked the door open, and stared straight at Desmond.

"A mistake like this would kill you in the field," he'd said.

It had been too dark to see his face, and maybe that was how Desmond had found the courage to argue. "It's only a broken lock," he'd said.

His father had gestured for Desmond to put his hand on the doorframe, and he had. Disobeying would only make things worse. The door slamming shut on his fingers had been more surprising than it should have been, but the pain was an old, familiar friend. Desmond remembers falling to his knees, cradling his broken fingers, apologies falling from numb lips. "I'm sorry!" he'd sobbed. "Sir, I shouldn't have been so stupid."

"And maybe next time, you won't be," his father had said, turning his back on Desmond. "Although I admit, my hopes are not high."

He shakes himself away from memories, and finishes wrapping William's hand before sitting back on the balls of his feet. "There," he says. "Try not to move them too much, alright?"

There's a beat, a silent pause when maybe Desmond should have backed away, but doesn't. Then it's too late to stop the words from coming, and Desmond says, "You really don't know me?"

Again, he watches William's eyes flick up and then quickly down again, like looking Desmond directly in the face is an assault too offensive to be contemplated. "No," he says at last.

"Then why are you afraid?"

William doesn't answer for a long time. He wraps his arms around himself in a tight hug and stares at his knees. "You hurt me," he says, and Desmond lets out a sigh because he knows it's true. "I don't remember…" William trails off, and chokes down tears as he struggles to speak again. "Whatever I did, I promise I won't do it again! I can be good, I swear! Just don't hurt me…"

Desmond stands and crosses to the other side of the van- when he reaches the place where the apple rests, he kicks at it viciously enough to make his toe ache. "Damn you," he curses, but the golden ball only lies there, silent and unresponsive.

"Geeze, Desmond-" he turns abruptly, only to see Shaun climbing back into the van with Rebecca. "We leave you two alone for half an hour, and when we get back he's crying and you're trying to destroy the van."

"Shut up," Desmond snarls.

Rebecca rejoins them in the back and kneels in front of William, speaking softly until the boy starts to calm. His sobs quiet to tears, and then to a kind of wet hiccuping. He seems to trust Rebecca more than he does Desmond, allowing her close without flinching away. And why shouldn't he? The apple hadn't painted her as the villain of this charade.

It's ridiculous and he hates it. Somehow, he's made himself the bad guy, despite technically being the victim. And it's not that Desmond wants any kind of pity or attention from this, because he'd run and left this part of his life behind for a reason. He just wants it in the past, where he can lock it away and never think about it again.

None of this is fair- Desmond can barely believe it's _real- _and yet every time he looks across the length of the van, there's William to remind him that somehow, yes, it is actually happening. I can't believe this is real," he mumbles.

"_You _can't?" rebecca looks up from William. "Imagine how _he _feels."

"I don't have to," Desmond says, too quietly for her to hear.

**-/-**

**Note- I already have the entire fic written, so unless I just completely space there should be daily updates. It's a short fic, six chapters and a tiny epilogue, so... yea. Temper expectations, I guess.**


	3. (Part 1)Hunger

"_Dad," Desmond whines. "I'm hungry."_

_He's nine years old, too young to have learned that it's smarter to stay silent than complain to his father. After today, he will know to keep his mouth shut, but for now he is thinking only of his empty stomach, and his last meal almost twenty four hours before._

"_Now's not the time, Desmond," his father says without looking up from his desk. "I'm busy."_

"_But dad…"_

"_No."_

"_I'm hungry!"_

_His father scowls and looks up from his work. "Alright," he says. "I'll make you a deal. I will go down to the kitchen and make you lunch, but you have to eat everything in front of you, alright?"_

"_Okay," Desmond says, because another lesson he has yet to learn is never to make a deal with the devil._

_A little over an hour passes, and then Desmond is called into their house's tiny kitchen. For a second, he's just completely dumbstruck- their ancient, rickety table is weighed down with more food than he has ever seen on it before. He looks up at his father, who doesn't even blink. "Isn't this what you wanted?" he asks._

"_No," Desmond says. There's a weird feeling growing in his stomach, like someone's pulled the rug out from under him. He's starting to realize that this is his father trying to teach him… something. "I can't eat all this. It's too-"_

"_Then maybe next time, you'll think before opening your mouth long enough to bother me," his father says. "Eat it."_

"_All of it?"_

"_Of course," his father says. "You did promise, remember."_

"_I didn't know!" Desmond protests._

"_Which is another reason you're an idiot," his father snaps. "How unbelievably stupid do you have to be to make a deal without knowing the terms?" he punctuates this question with a quick, sharp blow to the back of Desmond's head that sends him scurrying away._

_It takes the rest of the day for Desmond to eat every scrap of food on that table. At first, it's easy. THen it's sort of an annoyance, and before too long he's forcing himself through every bite, scraping his food around on the plate because he can't stand the taste or sight or smell of it, and praying for some kind of escape. More than once, his father comes in, watches him for a while in silence, and leaves again. Every time this happens, Desmond watches him, hoping his father will decided he's learned his lesson and let him go. Instead, his father only reminds Desmond that he wouldn't be in this position if he hadn't wanted this._

_Finally, the table is clear, and Desmond escapes to the bathroom. He spends the whole night there, alternately on his knees in front of the toilet and curled against the cool tiles on the floor. He doesn't sleep at all, but when his father comes at the crack of dawn to remind him of his training, Desmond rises and follows without complaint. It's his own fault he got so sick, and anyway things will only get worse if he decides not to follow._

_After that, Desmond doesn't eat anything for almost a week, and can never again accept food from anyone without feeling sick to his stomach._

_-/-_

The flight back to the tates takes up most of the next two days, not even counting the time it takes to get a new passport for William to use. It's not as well made as any of the others, but no one's looking for a child and they pass through customs with no more than the usual amount of hassle.

They land in Chicago instead of New York, just in case anyone has managed to follow them this far. Landing in a different city gives them another chance to throw any followers off the trail. They switch IDs just in case, and settle in to wait for the connecting flight.

William stays quiet the whole time, but Desmond keeps a wary eye on him just in case. It's hard, because he has no idea what's going on inside the kid's head. There's no way of telling how much of him is still William, and how much is just Desmond's old fears and traumas rattling around until they find something to stick to.

Finally, after several hours, William speaks up. He walks to Rebecca and whispers, just loudly enough for Desmond to overhear, that he has to go to the bathroom. Rebecca nods, but calls him back when he starts to move away. "Take someone with you," she says, and William looks at her, clearly horrified. Shaun is gone looking for food, and Rebecca can't use the men's room, so that only leaves Desmond.

"Do I have to?" he asks.

Rebecca rolls her eyes. "You're both as bad as each other," she says. "I don't know why you don't just bond over your stubbornness."

By this point, William looks like he's trying very hard not to do an 'I have to pee' dance, so Desmond gives in. The only thing that could actually make things worse would be public urination. "Come on," he says. "I saw a bathroom down that way."

"I'm going to help Shaun with the food," Rebecca says. "You sure you don't want anything?"

"No," William says at once.

Desmond shakes his head as well. "I'll get something myself if it looks good."

Then it's just him and William, headed for the bathrooms- Desmond waits outside because whatever Rebecca says, there has to be a line somewhere.

By this point he actually is hungry (he hasn't had a chance to eat since before the rescue), but by now it's second nature to refuse offers of food. It doesn't matter how hungry he is, he knows he won't be able to eat a bite without flashing back to that night when he was nine, sick and vomiting on a bathroom floor because his father had forced him to eat way too much. He's not in the mood to relive that particular memory, so while William's busy in the bathroom Desmond gets in line at the overpriced McDonalds and gets food for himself.

William finds him again as Desmond is getting out of line, and eyes the bag of food like a starving animal. The sight is so pathetic that it surprises Desmond into an unwanted feeling of pity. "Want some?" he asks.

"Not hungry," William mutters, which Desmond interprets as some of his natural surly stubbornness coming back since he obviously _is_ hungry. He rolls his eyes and thinks no more about it. He shrugs and the two of them walk back to where they'd left Rebecca and Shaun- William keeps his eyes on the ground and his arms wrapped around his torso. When they get there, William curls up on a chair as far from the others as possible, closes his eyes and immediately drops off to sleep.

"Would you look at him?" Shaun says. "That's just-"

"We really need to talk about this," Rebeca interrupts. "What exactly happened to him?"

"The apple," Desmond says. "I told you."

"Why would it make him a child when it killed everyone else?" Shaun asks.

"It almost did," Rebecca points out. "Look how beat up he is."

"Unless that's from the templars," Shaun says. "Was he like that before the apple, Desmond?"

He frowns, reluctant to be brought into the conversation. "He was fine," he says. "Just… you know. Angry. Like always. And anyway, it doesn't matter how it happened, does it? We just need to figure out what happens next."

"We have to keep him with us," Rebecca says. "I don't think he remembers anything, and even if he did, he looks like a stiff breeze would knock him over."

This is undeniably true. Desmond can't help unfocusing for a little while, staring at William as he sleeps. It's easier to watch him like this, asleep, than it is when he's awake. His face (so familiar, even softened and shrunken by childhood) is drawn in misery. His eyes move under his closed lids, and every once in a while he whimpers quietly.

"Are you listening, Desmond?"

He starts at the sound of Rebecca's voice in his ear, but she doesn't sound angry- just sad and almost pitying.

"Not really," Desmond admits. "Sorry."

"It's okay," Rebecca says. "I know this must be really weird for you."

"It's not that," Desmond says. "It's just…" he hadn't been planning on telling her, not until his voice breaks and the words come tumbling out. "It's my fault! If I hadn't-"

"If you hadn't done anything, he'd still be in Abstergo, dead or worse," Rebecca interrupts. It's not true, and Desmond knows there are lots of ways he could have saved his father from this. But he can't explain, not with her looking at him like that, with that pitying expression, so Desmond doesn't even try.

"I still think I could have done something," he says, and leaves it at that.

Rebecca hugs him- it's unexpected, and Desmond goes stiff for a minute before he can force his body to relax. It's been a long time since he was comfortable with being held like this. "You're a good man, Des," she says. "You can't change what already happened, but there's plenty of stuff you can do _now _to help him."

"He hates me," Desmond protests, because it's easier than explaining the complicated past between himself and his father. "He's afraid of me."

"So show him why he shouldn't be," Rebecca says. "Kids pay attention to what you do, not what you say. So be nice to him, and he'll respond."

"Easier said than done," Desmond says. "We… don't get along, you know?" It's an understatement, but one he knows Rebecca will accept.

"I know," she says, pulling away from Desmond and turning to look at William. "I remember you fighting. But _he _doesn't. This is a second chance, Desmond. Don't let it slip away."

Desmond considers this for a very long time. He thinks over Rebecca's words as they wait for their flight, and goes over every painful memory of his father during the trip back to New York. The question isn't so much what he _should _do. If William had been any other child, Desmond wouldn't have hesitated to throw every effort possible into making his life better. He's been there, after all. He'd spent years praying for someone to come and rescue him, until finally he'd given up and rescued himself.

To his own considerable surprise, Desmond decides he doesn't want William to have to give up on being rescued. He actually _wants _to help him. And (a selfish little voice in his head points out) if he can fix William, maybe there's some hope for him, too. He can shake off those lingering traumas from childhood that still keep him chained down so many years later. They can both get happy endings.

When the plane lands, William is still asleep. Shaun moves to wake him up, but Desmond grabs him by the shoulder to stop him, and shakes his head. "I got this." Shaun nods in silent understanding, and leaves the two of them alone.

Even asleep, William resists when Desmond leans over to pick him up. He mumbles something rendered unintelligible by sleep, and shifts a little bit away. "Come on," Desmond mutters. He gathers the boy into his arms, careful not to put too much pressure on any of his injuries. William is light, and Desmond is shocked at how fragile he feels in his arms. This time, William's head is resting on Desmond's shoulder, his arms wrapped tightly around Desmond's neck. It's tight enough to hurt, but weirdly enough…. Desmond doesn't care.

His father has nearly strangled him before, twice. Once when he was thirteen, and once two years later. Desmond does his eyes and remembers what it feels like to have thick fingers squeezing all the oxygen out of his lungs. This is different, because William's not angry or disappointed, he's just… desperate. Desmond doesn't try to fight him, letting him reassure himself that he is not alone.

"He's still asleep?" Rebecca asks.

"Yea," Desmond says. "I don't… what do I do now?"

"Someone's clearly not cut out to be a parent," Shaun says under his breath, but Desmond ignores him completely. It's not like parenthood is something that's ever been on the table for him. He's not entirely sure that what's happening now counts as parenting, either, but it's probably close enough.

"We need to get back to the temple," Rebecca says. "I mean, this…" she makes a gesture that encompasses both Desmond and William. "It's weird and important and obviously needs to be dealt with, but we still need to make saving the world our priority."

"Right," Desmond says. "In all the insanity of what's happened to William, he's almost forgotten about the animus. Now that comes falling back on top of him as well, another back breaking weight to drag around with him. "We should… we should go do that."


	4. (Part 1)Who You Are

William wakes up groggy, feeling like he's been asleep for hours. He doesn't open his eyes for a long time, waiting and listening, trying to figure out where he is and what's going on before he decides to risk moving.

The first thing he notices is that wherever he is, it's cold. Not cold like winter or cold like too much air conditioning, but cold like underground, the bone chilling freeze of a place that never sees the sun. William shivers and curls himself into a tighter ball, hugging his chest tightly to stop the shivers.

Someone speaks nearby, and William listens hard as he recognizes Rebecca's voice. "It's going to take a few minutes to get the animus set up. I took baby offline when we left so no one could use her if they found this place."

"Great," Desmond says. He sounds tired, and William can't help the way he stops breathing for a second at the sound of his voice coming closer. "Can't wait."

"Sorry," Rebecca says. "I know it's not fun, but it's-"

"It's important, yea, I know," Desmond sighed. "I didn't say I wouldn't do it, just that I didn't want to."

A few more minutes pass, and William starts to tune the conversation out as it wanders into a technical conversation he can't follow. Then the room goes silent, and he decides it is finally time to get up.

He opens his eyes and gets to his feet, rubbing at the crusty corners of his eyelids with his uninjured hand. A quick look around shows him that no one is paying attention to him, so William studies his surroundings with a little more care.

The place looks… kind of awesome. That's his first impression, and for a long time William just stares around, awed by the cavernous room and glowing wall at the end. It makes him think of some kind of high tech pirate cove, and he's grinning broadly when his wandering gaze finally lands on Desmond. The smile slides right off his face, and William feels suddenly afraid again

But the man isn't moving- he just lies flat on his back on a slab of stone, breathing evenly and deeply, as if he were asleep. William screws up his courage and walks closer, stopping only when he's close enough to see Desmond's face.

It's not a mean face, not really. It's lined by worry, but looks like it smiles often. The right side of his mouth has been cut through by some old injury, and a scar mars an otherwise clear face. William wonders how he got it,

No matter how hard he tries, William cannot remember why he is afraid of Desmond. The fear is very present, and very real- William can feel it biting at him just from being this close. But he doesn't know why it's there.

He screws up his eyes and thinks, hard. Distant memories drift through his mind, so fogged and unclear they barely seem like his own. Memories of being hurt, over and over again, of feeling so powerless he can barely force himself out of bed in the morning, of messing up again and again and _again_ and knowing there's no escaping the inevitable punishment (and knowing he deserves it anyway, because he's been told so a million times).

But…

But it's not that simple. William is afraid of Desmond, but he can't hate him. Not completely, not in the simple way he wishes he could. He wants… somewhere deep inside him, he wants Desmond to love him, to see him and smile, to be proud and tell him he's done well. There's a crushing sort of impossibility to that hope that tells William he's stupid for wanting it, but he can't make himself stop.

He looks down at the broken fingers on his hand, the ones Desmond had bandaged so carefully. It still hurt, but not as much as it had hurt before. William doesn't understand that at all, because the half memories sliding around in his head tell him Desmond was the one that had hurt him in the first place. It just… none of it makes any sense, and trying to understand makes William's head hurt- he puts his palm to his forehead and presses hard, which doesn't help at all.

"Hey," Rebecca says, and William only jumps a little at the sound of her friendly voice. "How are you feeling?"

Confused. Hungry. Scared. Cold. "Fine," he says.

"Do you need something?" she asks. "Shaun cooked, if you're hungry. Not exactly five star dining or anything, but it's definitely edible."

William glances the direction she's gesturing, and feels his stomach rebel as memories of being forced to eat until he throws up rise to the front of his mind. "No," he says, very quickly. He's really hungry by now, but he'd rather stay hungry than take food from someone else and be sick again.

"It's there if you change your mind," Rebecca says, and she's about to turn away when William stops her.

"What's wrong with him?" he blurts, pointing at Desmond's unnaturally still body. "Is he sick?"

Rebecca doesn't answer, just drops her eyes and fwists her fingers together. In the end, it's Shaun that speaks up.

"Desmond's… not here right now," he says, and William narrows his eyes in response, confused by the blatant half answer.

"He's right there," he says. "I don't get it."

"His body is there," Shaun agrees. "His mind is in the past."

"So it's like a time machine?" William asks, interest suddenly piqued.

"Come see," Shaun says, and William moves cautiously after Shaun to see the computer screen on the man's desk. Something that looks like a movie plays out in silence there, and William looks between the screen and Shaun, waiting for some kind of explanation.

"That's not Desmond," he says.

"Obviously not," Shaun says, and William looks up at his face nervously, searching for some sign that he's about to be punished for not understanding quickly enough. To his surprise, though, Shaun doesn't get mad. He seems almost excited, pointing as the stranger on the screen runs and jumps, climbs and hunts, and… and _kills_. By the time Shaun has finished explaining what an animus is, William is staring with horrified fascination. Another several men fall (bloody and horribly mangled) on screen. All William can think is that it's actually _Desmond _doing this, and that's terrifying.

He manages to keep breathing, although he wants to cry and the silent sob trapped in his throat makes it hard to keep his lungs working. "I have to…" his words catch and won't come out- William flees before Shaun can start asking questions. He doesn't know this place well, but it's big and old, full of holes no one else could fit through. One of them, a narrow crack in the wall barely as tall as William, turns out to be perfect. It goes back several dozen yards, before opening up a little into a small room formed by some long forgotten earthquake or shift of the earth. The craggy cavern is full of sharp edges and hard corners, but it's tall enough for him to stand in comfortably, and at least ten feet long and ten feet wide.

It seems sturdy, so William is not afraid (of collapsing tunnels) when he presses his face to the wall and sobs. They are silent tears- he knows better than to risk being heard, and stone echoes- but no less terrible for that silence. He sobs until his entire body shakes, until his legs give out and he slides down the wall to land in a heap on the ground. His whole body hurts from where he hits sharp stones on the way down, and the careful wrappings Desmond has covered his fingers with are starting to tear.

William stares at the bandages for a moment, then yanks the remnants of cloth away. They are a lie, just as Desmond's kindness in wrapping his fingers had been a lie. Every one of William's instincts had told him the man is dangerous, but in that moment, when they were alone in the back of the van, William had dared to believe his instincts were wrong. He'd _hoped_, just a little bit.

And then, he'd seen the animus. He'd seen Desmond… or Desmond pretending to be his ancestor, anyway. When he closes his eyes, William sees the casual, horrifying violence as Desmond ripped the man apart. What would happen to William when Desmond decided he wasn't worth being nice to anymore? He would be _lucky _to walk away with nothing worse than broken fingers, when that happened.

William presses his hand to the wall, feeling bones shift and nerves scream in pain. It's a _good _pain, though, because it reminds him that he has been an idiot for trusting Desmond, no matter how briefly, and that doing so a second time could be fatal.

The rest of the day is spent quietly gathering information and supplies. William hoards what he can get his hands on, not at all picky as long as his stolen haul looks useful. The bedroll he woke up on- a few medical supplies- a book or two left lying around. The only thing he can't get at is what he wants most. There's always someone near the food, and there's no way he can come out and _ask_. So he stays hungry. It's only been a few days, anyway. He can last a while longer.

The cave very quickly starts to feel like home; or at least, like somewhere safe. He manages to relax a little, until the time when Desmond wakes up from the animus. William hears him groan a little, and then Rebecca's voice telling him to get up more slowly. William listens without moving until Desmond asks after him.

"Where d- shit. William?"

"Hiding," Shaun says. "He found a corner somewhere and he won't come out. I think the animus freaked him out a little."

"Yea, well, it freaks me out too," Desmond says, and they speak no more about it. Much later, when the room is silent again, William comes crawling out of his hole-

Only to find Desmond standing no more than a foot away, almost comical in his obvious surprise. For a second he looks like a deer in the headlights, almost as afraid of William as William is of him. Then William shakes his head and dismisses this as obviously ridiculous. Why would Desmond be afraid of _him_?

"It's okay," Desmond says, with a smile William does not even pretend to believe. "You can come out."

It's not okay, but William doesn't want to risk disobeying. He steps into the open, still within easy reach of his hiding place, and stands before Desmond, stiff and nervous.

"Um…" Desmond coughs and crosses his arms. "Are you doing okay? Do you need anything?"

People keep asking him that. "No, sir," William says. I don't need anything. I'm fine."

"I told you," Desmond says. "You don't need to call me sir. Remember?"

"Sorry," William whispers, horrified by this mistake. "I didn't mean to- it was an accident!"

"It's fine," Desmond says. "Mistakes happen." He takes a step forward, and William's courage deserts him. He lets out a far too audible squeak, and retreats back into his hole.


	5. (Part 1)What You Want

"How'd it go?" Shaun asks when Desmond trudges back to the middle of the room.

"Shut up."

"That well, huh?"

"It's hard," Desmond says defensively. But he doesn't want to talk right now, so he heads for the bin of rations by the workstations. "I'm going to make something to eat."

"I did cook, you know?" Shaun complains.

"I'd just rather get my own," Desmond mutters. He's halfway to the food when Rebecca speaks up.

"Is that some kind of weird Miles trait?" she asks.

"No," Desmond says. "Why?"

"Because William's being all weird and not eating, either," she says. "So I thought maybe it was a family thing."

And Desmond is only half listening to her answer, more interested in food, until finally his stupid, too-slow brain connects the dots and he realizes what's going on.

Desmond stops in his tracks and looks at Rebecca. "He won't eat," he says.

"I know," Rebecca says. "I just said that."

"No, I mean-" he stops, then restarts. "I really fucked up. I'll… I'll be right back. Sorry."

He hears them whispering as he runs, and knows he must look either insane or idiotic. It doesn't matter right now, though. It's been a while since Desmond really stopped to think about why he won't eat food from anyone else, but suddenly he remembers that this, too, is his father's fault. It's not just the pan and the fear his mistake with the apple has passed on to William, it's every piece of abuse he'd suffered through as a child. That means William is going to end up half starved unless Desmond can think of a way to get him food without apparently being involved in any way.

He rummages through the supply bins and eventually fills a plate with food- solid but bland, exactly what a child needs after days without food. Then he looks around, eventually finding a place that looks like he could reasonably be expected to forget his dinner. Half an hour later, when he looks back, the plate is empty. Clearly, he's decided this is food he can stomach, and taken full advantage of the opportunity to steal it for himself. Desmond makes a mental note to do this again, and often. He doesn't want to be like his father, not even accidentally.

He waits a long time for William to come out of his hole. Eventually he does, and looks no less upset to see Desmond waiting there than he had the first time.

"Come here," Desmond says, and while William doesn't hesitate to obey, he looks like he'd rather be almost anywhere else in the world. "What's wrong?" Desmond asks.

"Nothing," William says. He keeps his eyes on Desmond's hands, not his face, and fidgets a little as he speaks.

"I don't want you upset," Desmond says. "But I can't help you if I don't know what's going on in your head."

"I'm fine," William insists, and Desmond's almost willing to let it go at that. Then he notices William's hands are no longer bandaged.

"What happened to your fingers?"

"Nothing," William says again. "I'm fine!"

"Let me just see," Desmond says. He moves forward, but William falls back as if struck.

"Don't _touch _me!" he shouts, and the words ring like bells in the echoing hugeness of the temple. Desmond hears the desperate helplessness in his voice and stops dead in his tracks. Rebecca and Shaun are already staring.

Desmond waits half a heartbeat, torn between letting William do what he wants and pushing the issue. He settles on something in between. "Okay," he says. "You don't want me to touch you, I won't. I hope you change your mind, but that's your choice."

William just stares at Desmond, trembling and wide eyed. When he finally speaks, it's in a voice almost too quiet to hear. "You're not… mad at me? For shouting?"

"No," Desmond says. "I'm…" Fuck, this is hard. "Sad that you're afraid of me, but that's all." He watches William's face go through a storm of emotions, finally settling on numb disbelief. Desmond sighs, disappointed but not surprised. He wouldn't have trusted his father, if he'd tried to tell him the hurting would stop when he was young. "Will you let Rebecca wrap your hand?" he asks. "The fingers are never going to heal if you don't take care of them."

"Okay," William whispers, and Desmond lets him hurry away.

"That kid was abused, wasn't he?" Shaun says to Desmond when William is with Rebecca.

"No shit, Sherlock," Desmond mutters. "What was your first clue? The injuries all over his body, or the way he can't even look any of us in the eye?"

Shaun frowns. "You've known the whole time," he says accusingly. "You should have told us."

And Desmond shakes his head, doesn't defend himself because there _is _no defense, not for this. In his stomach, the ball of guilt that has been growing since Italy squeezes at his stomach, and suddenly he's glad he gave his dinner to William instead of eating it himself.

"Desmond?" Shaun says, and Desmond realizes he's been silent a little too long.

The truth is difficult; he lies instead. "I'm just worried. I don't know what to do."

And neither does Shaun, apparently. He makes some excuse and hurries away as quickly as possible, burying himself in paperwork and hunching his shoulders to ward the others away.

Rebecca manages to keep William with her for nearly half an hour, and Desmond even hears him laugh once, a quiet and almost guilty sound. But soon enough, he's creeping away for the night, and Rebecca corners Desmond.

"Hey," she says. "We need to pack your dad's stuff up," she says, gesturing toward the abandoned desk that looks like it might never be used again. "I think it might be bad if he sees it now."

"Probably," Desmond agrees, and he follows her reluctantly to the abandoned desk.

It's almost military in its organization, and Desmond is not at all surprised to find almost nothing personal there. He clears the entire desk and then Rebecca laughs suddenly, shifting his father's laptop closer to Desmond to point something out. "Is this you?" she asks, and Desmond blinks as he finds himself staring at a picture of himself, aged thirteen years, looking happy and nervous, holding hands with a blonde girl the same age.

"Yea," he says. "My first girlfriend." He hadn't known there were pictures.

"She have a name?"

"Yes," Desmond says, and she rolls her eyes at the vagueness of his answer. But he doesn't want to talk about his disastrous introduction to dating. They'd lasted about a month before his father drove her away- any girl would have fled when her boyfriend's dad seemed to delight in pointing out his every flaw.

"Come on," Rebecca says. "Details!"

"She grew up on the Farm with me," Desmond says, reluctantly. "She used to kick my ass at training."

Rebecca clicks through the folder, finding more pictures- Desmond sees himself, his mother, neighbors he hasn't thought about for years. The last picture is the earliest, old and faded, clearly a scan from a printed photo. The scene in the picture is badly lit, and it's the only one showing Desmond's father. Desmond recognizes the setting as his parents' bedroom, complete with the same cheap curtains that were still hanging on the windows when he ran away at sixteen. In the picture, his mother lies on the bed, arms filled with a tiny bundle wrapped in blankets.

Desmond.

But the part of the picture he can't take his eyes off of is his father. He's crouched on the bed next to his wife, face turned down at an angle that makes it still clearly visible to the camera. He looks terrified and uncertain, as if he's just been handed a huge responsibility he doesn't think he's ready for. His expression has more in common with the child he has recently become than the unbending man of iron from Desmond's memories.

He doesn't like that, doesn't like the reminder that they man and the boy are actually the same person. He reaches across the desk, past Rebecca, and slams the laptop closed. "I left the Farm for a reason," he says. "I don't really want to go back."

"Sorry," she says, but her eyes are narrow and hard, and Desmond isn't surprised when she leaves without another word. He briefly considers finishing the cleaning, but sleep sounds more enticing and he's not sure what to do with his father's stuff anyway. So he shrugs and leaves it all in boxes as he goes to bed.

-/-

William is at the desk when Desmond wakes the next morning, chin in his hands as he studies the open laptop screen. Desmond stops a few feet away and watches. William looks tired, like he hadn't slept well the night before, and his eyes are half closed as he studies the screen with a determined intensity that surprises Desmond. He considers leaving, but William notices him before he can. The look in his eyes as he turns to Desmond is tired and pleading. _Please be nice today_, it seems to say. _I'm too tired to run._

Desmond pulls up a second chair and slides it over to William's side. His stomach jolts a little as he sees the picture of himself as a baby still on the screen. After a while, William speaks.

"I like this picture," he says, tone almost dreamy.

"Yea?" The word sticks in Desmond's throat, and he coughs before continuing. "How come?"

"Dunno," William says. "But I think… maybe I saw it before, and it made me happy then."

Desmond has nothing to say to this, so he keeps silent.

"Who's in the picture?" William asks.

"Well…" Desmond hesitates. He doesn't want to talk about this, not with William. It had been hard enough with Rebecca. But this is the first time William has spoken to him without sounding afraid, so Desmond knows he can't afford to let his opportunity pass. "The baby's me," he says.

"What about the grown ups?" William asks.

"My parents," Desmond says. "My mom. And… my dad." On an impulse, he sucks in a breath and says, "He beat me."

William actually turns to look at him, eyes going wide with the revelation. "Your dad hurt you?" he asks.

"Until I was sixteen," Desmond says. "Then I ran away. I couldn't take it anymore."

"Then why…." William trails off, only speaking again when Desmond nods in encouragement. "Why do you hurt people? If you know what it feels like?"

"Because some people need to be hurt," Desmond says. "Because they want to hurt innocents, or take away our free will, or worse."

"Why do you hurt _me_?" William asks, in a voice so quiet, Desmond wouldn't have known what he was asking if he hadn't expected it already.

"It's… complicated," Desmond says. He can't deny that he's hurt William, but one moment of weakness with the apple had done what it had taken his father years of casual cruelty to achieve. "I know you won't believe this, but I'm sorry."

"What about all those people in the aminus?" William asks.

"Animus," Desmond corrects. "What do you mean?"

"I saw you," William says. "Killing people."

Desmond winces and makes a note to have strong words with whomever had let William watch his animus sessions. "It's different in the animus," he explains. "I have to do what my ancestor did. "I don't get to choose for myself." This is a vast oversimplification, but it's enough for now.

"You've never killed anyone then?" William asks, and he looks so hopeful that Desmond wishes he could reassure him.

He won't lie, though. "I have," he says, and then goes on quickly as William starts to pull back. "But you're protected."

"Why?" William asks. "You kill other people, why-" he falters, but manages to go on. "Why wouldn't you kill me?"

"Because we have a creed," Desmond says. "And part of that creed says 'stay your blade from the flash of the innocent'."

"What if you decide I'm not an innocent?" William asks. "What if I mess up, or don't listen to you? Would you hurt me then?"

Desmond considers this. His father has done very many things that (in Desmond's opinion) that make him guilty. But the child in front of him has not, and more importantly _could _not. He's just too young.

"No," he says. "You're a child. You can't defend yourself. I'm here to protect you."

William looks at him like he doesn't know what to make of this. Then he slides off his chair and retreats back to his safe place.

-/-

Desmond tracks him down after his animus session that day. William is drawing something on some stolen or borrowed paper, but looks up when Desmond comes near. For once, he doesn't shy away. Desmond sits down next to him, and says, "What do you want?"

William's brow crinkles as he looks at Desmond in confusion. 'I don't get it," he says.

"What do you want?" Desmond repeats, and this time William seems to understand. His confusion turns to suspicion, and then to doubt.

"Why do you care what I want?" he asks.

Lots of reasons, really. Desmond wants to know what's going on in William's head, and what the boy wants badly enough to risk asking for, and if he'll even be brave enough to risk asking in the first place.

"A camera," William says at last, after what looks like a long mental conversation with himself. "Please?" Then he looks at Desmond, and waits expectantly for an answer. For a minute, the situation is so similar to one of Desmond's own memories, it actually takes his breath away.

_He's fourteen years old, awkward with puberty and just old enough to start wondering about the world outside the farm. He doesn't quite believe there's anything better out there, not yet, but he thinks he might want to see a different kind of bad._

_This is during the worst of the beatings, when Desmond is always nursing some injury or other, and coming home at night inevitably means a lecture or slap or something worse. Desmond rarely speaks, barely eats, and can't relax enough to sleep well. He can't close his eyes without thinking of his father in the next room, no doubt waiting for him to do something wrong and imagining terrible punishments._

_Every day, he rises with the sun, does his chores, goes to training, and then heads home to find his father in a towering rage and looking for a victim. For many months, nothing about this routine changes at all, and then suddenly everything is turned upside down._

_There's an attack, somewhere to the east, in the mountains. Desmond doesn't know all the details, but a compound almost as large as the Farm is suddenly wiped out, and thirty seven people are left with nowhere to live. The rest... no longer have to worry about that._

_The survivors come to the Farm._

_For two wonderful weeks, every adult on the Farm is busy with other tasks, and Desmond gloriously, is ignored. Even his father is too distracted to care what Desmond does. And there are new people his own age, other teens that don't know how useless he is, and are bored enough to hang out with him._

_It's the best two weeks he's had in a long time. They run every morning, going as far as they can until one of them (usually Desmond) can't go any farther. Then they stop, wherever they are, and collapse to the ground, panting and laughing until they can move again. They tell each other elaborate stories, of made up countries and magic, of revolutions and fallen kings, and act out dramatic battles with swords that are sticks stolen the ground and spells that are just shouted words and pure belief. It's loud and ridiculous and a little bit childish, but Desmond doesn't care. This is fun._

_One day, they decide to build a treehouse, just to see if they can. And Desmond is completely on board with this, right up until someone tells him they need his father's permission to use some of the Farm's tools, and that he should be the one to ask._

_Desmond doesn't want to, but buoyed by the support of his new friends, he dares to ask. He approaches one night when his father seems calm, and mumbles his request. When he's done, he looks up at the man expectantly, daring to hope that this will go well. His father laughs in his face, cuffs him around the ear (a gesture so casual neither of them notices much), and says, flatly, "no." The unfairness of this, when he's asking for something so simple, makes Desmond retreat a little in shock before bowing his head in surrender. He must have been stupid or crazy to ask. When his father snaps at him that clearly he's got too much free time on his hands, and he will resume in the morning, Desmond can't even speak, much less argue._

_Untended and ignored, Desmond's blossoming friendships shrivel and die. They get tools from somewhere else, and built their treehouse without him. When they run into one another, infrequently and never for long, they barely remember his name._

"_It's better this way," his father tells Desmond when he witnesses one such encounter. "Friends are a danger, Desmond. They will only hurt you."_

"_Yes sir," Desmond says, and as the only friends he's ever (almost) had drift away, he almost believes his father._

_He never asks anything of the man again._

William is still waiting for an answer, so Desmond takes a deep breath and nods. He'd debated saying no for a minute, as a kind of twisted payback for everything he'd been denied as a child, but it's a little late to start thinking of revenge now.

The way Williams whole face seems to light up makes him glad he'd agreed. He looks absolutely amazed, gobsmacked even, that Desmond is going to give him something. Willingly. "Why?" he asks.

"Because I want you to be happy," Desmond says, but although William seems willing to believe his words, they're not exactly true. He's been there, in William's shoes. He knows exactly how William feels, and he wishes his father had said yes to him. Just once.

"Thank you," William says, and he's still smiling so widely, it looks like he's about to split his face into two pieces.


	6. (Part 1)Love is a Polaroid

William goes with Desmond and Shaun when they leave on a supply run the next day. They start by going for food, and Desmond gives William money so he can buy food for himself, and he actually get to eat. It's nothing special, but William is hungry and just happy that Desmond made things easier for him. He sits quietly at the table, munching on greasy pizza and swinging his feet against the booth to hear the thumping noise it makes. On the other side of the table, Desmond and Shaun talk quietly about things that sound boring, supplies and numbers and other such topics.

He's not paying any attention, but after a while Desmond looks over at him. "Hey William," he says. "Stop kicking the chair, okay?"

William freezes, waiting for shouting, or violence, or _something_, but Desmond just goes right back to his conversation with Shaun. Still, William feels suddenly bad about the noise, and so he very quietly pulls his feet onto the booth under him and sits on them for the rest of the meal.

The next stop is a chain store, one of a thousand or more of the same name across the country. William sticks close to Desmond and Shaun, but most of his attention is focused on the overwhelming variety of _stuff_ around him. For nearly half an hour he manages to stay with the two adults, and then suddenly he turns around and neither of them is there. The whole area is packed with unfamiliar faces that make William's heart beat faster with adrenaline.

A wave of fear surges up suddenly, not because he's lost but because he's going to be _found_. He knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that Desmond is going to be mad. And then- his mind fills with bleak imaginings of what his inevitable punishment is going to be.

He stands still, trembling and too scared to take a single step, until suddenly Desmond comes hurrying around a corner. His face is tight and hard, and an almost embarrassing whimper bursts from William before he can stop it. He's frozen, he can't move, all he can do is whisper "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry" over and over again.

Desmond comes right up to him, and William closes his eyes in horrified anticipation of what's going to happen next. But Desmond only grabs a handful of William's hair, tangling his fingers through it, and pulls William into a tight embrace. One hand stays firmly knotted in the hair at the back of his head, and the other moves down to hold him protectively across the shoulders. "Don't _do _that," Desmond says, and he sounds worried, not angry.

He… doesn't sound angry.

William breathes out, hard, and his arms snake out to surround Desmond and suddenly he's holding the man tight, like he's drowning and there's nothing else in the world that can keep him afloat.

"Um…" Desmond tries to step back and William holds on tighter.

"Woah," Shaun says, and William realizes he must have caught up to them. "Did I miss something?"

"Don't look at me," Desmond says. "I have no idea what just happened."

"You didn't get mad," William mumbles, and his mouth is still pressed against Desmond's stomach so that the words are almost inaudible. "I messed up and you didn't get mad." It still seems unbelievable to him, because this isn't- it's not the way the world is supposed to work. It goes against everything William knows about Desmond, but…

He frowns. But it doesn't. It contradicts everything he'd _woken up _knowing, all the knowledge he'd had on the first clear day of his memory, that day he'd woken with terror in his gut and dead men all around, and the certain knowledge in his head that Desmond is a danger. But it does not contradict anything that has happened since. Desmond has wrapped his hand, listened to him, explained his actions, and hadn't gotten mad when William screwed up and got lost.

He's not… he's not a bad person, and this realization hits William hard enough to drive the breath out of him, and makes the world seem to tilt like gravity has abandoned the planet entirely. Nothing makes sense, everything is upside down, and Desmond _is not a bad person_.

Desmond puts his hands on William's, loosening his grip a little, and the crouches down so they're on the same level. "I'm not you," he says, which makes no sense to William. It's obviously important to Desmond though, because he says it again, slowly and with precise emphasis.

"I am not you. I will not hurt a child- any child- because they've done something wrong. I will not make them suffer to teach them a lesson, or deny them what they want without consideration. I will not hurt you, specifically. I might get mad sometimes, but I'm only human, and I want you to know that I still…" here he looks away, takes a deep breath, and then refocuses his gaze on William- the boy stands frozen and still, unable to tear his eyes away. "I still love you. If I ask you to do something, I need you to trust me that it's for a good reason, and if I seem mad, I need you to know you're still a good person."

William nods, and Shaun coughs loudly from behind them. "Sorry," he says. "But we're starting to make a scene.

"Right," Desmond says, straightening up. "Let's get this over with."

This time, William is careful to keep close to the other two. They finish, and Desmond leads William to the electronics display while Shaun goes to check out. He waves off the over eager salesman that approaches, and picks out what looks like the oldest camera there, a polaroid set in a display labelled 'novelty gifts'. William holds it close when Desmond passes it to him, gripping it tightly because it's a gift and a promise.

-/-

William breathes more easily after that. The constant weight on his chest fades away, and there is good in the world again. When they get back to the cave, in the days and nights that follow, William begins to test his boundaries. He starts conversations instead of waiting to be spoken to, and when no one minds he talks until the room echoes with the sound of his words. He roams the cavern, climbing and exploring until Desmond finds him perched in a high alcove he can't get down from, and after that there are rules about where he's allowed to go.

After that, he sticks to ground level, roaming the cavern and taking pictures of everything and then waiting impatiently for the images to form on the paper. The nice thing about polaroids is that the pictures develop while he waits, and William never gets tired of staring at the blank, black photo paper as the picture he's just taken becomes gradually visible. Every photo is a treasure, even the ones that are mostly of the floor or his fingers, and Rebecca gives him a large roll of tape so he can hang them on the walls of his hiding place.

He takes pictures of everything and everyone, but mostly of Desmond. His walls fill with pictures of Desmond in the animus, or talking with Rebecca and Shaun, or eating dinner alone. William spends a long time standing in front of the photos, studying every inch, and it takes him a long while to realize he's searching for… something. Every picture he takes is more empty than it should be, and it frustrates William that he doesn't know what they're missing.

He goes back to staring at the picture on the computer of infant Desmond with his parents, because he feels that _this _picture has what he's looking for, even if he doesn't know what that is. He stays like that for hours, until finally Shaun catches him.

William looks up as the man's shadow crosses the laptop screen, but doesn't say anything.

"You're quiet today," Shaun says. "Are you okay?"

"I'm thinking," William says. "I can't figure out what this picture has that mine are missing."

Shaun bends over to look at the screen, and laughs. "I know what it is," he says.

"Really?" William sits up straight and twists around eagerly to look at Shaun. "What?"

"Don't worry about it," Shaun says, and refuses to say anything else, no matter how much William begs.

Eventually, though, he manages to put all thoughts of Shaun's cryptic words out of his head. Desmond finishes his day's work in the animus earlier than usual, and he's unusually energetic and alert as he sits up and stretches. He sits on the edge of the animus, listening with apparent interest to everything William's done over the course of his day. When he's finished, Desmond explains what he's seen through his ancestor's eyes- William suspects that Desmond isn't telling him everything, but stays quiet. He doesn't want to know every detail of the more violent elements of the man's life.

"Your ancestor sounds kind of okay," he informs Desmond when the man finishes telling him about investigating a UFO (actually an umbrella caught in a tree). "Even if he does kill a lot of people."

"Yea," Desmond agrees. "Connor's not that bad." He grins at William. "He's your ancestor too, you know."

"Really?" William isn't quite sure what to make of this, because Connor's sort of okay but still a terrifying murderer. Then- "Does that mean we're related?"

"You didn't know?" Desmond asks, and he seems absolutely shocked.

"No."

"Oh," Desmond says. "Yea, you're my… we're related."

"Good," William says, and beams up at him. Desmond smiles back.

_Click._

They both look up, startled, to see Shaun pointing William's camera at the pair of them.

"Hey!' William protests, running to him. "That's mine!"

"I know," Shaun says. "Calm down." He hands the camera back, along with the picture Shaun's just taken. William glances down at the slowly forming image, then does a double take. It's just him and Desmond, happy, laughing, comfortable and relaxed with each other at last. But this picture has what all the others have been missing, and William doesn't understand. He looks up at Shaun, mouth open to ask a question his startled brain can't even put together.

Shaun pats him on the shoulder.

"You're not in any of your own pictures," he explains. "That's what you were missing. That relationship."

"Are you being _nice_, Shaun?" Rebecca calls from her workstation.

"You saw nothing," Shaun snaps, but he winks at William as he turns back to his work.

The picture of Desmond and William together doesn't get taped up with the others. William carries it around with him instead, even when the corners get bent and grimy from constant handling. Desmond teases him about it occasionally, but he seems mostly flattered and so William doesn't take his comments seriously.

He takes to sitting by Desmond while he's in the animus, thinking or watching the feed of what Desmond and Connor are doing, or just staring at the photograph. He's doing this last bit when Desmond sits up and announces that he knows where the key is. William looks up at him, really looks at his face, and realizes that after this, nothing is going to be the same.

-/-

"There is a third option," Minerva says, much later, after they have found the key and unlocked the temple. She's just finished telling them that Desmond is either going to have to sacrifice himself or let the world burn, and William can't help hoping that maybe this third option will be better than the first two. "There are two people here that could make this choice, not one."

"What?" Juno sounds momentarily confused, an emotion that really does not fit her, then comprehension dawns. "Ah…" She smiles, cold and crafty, and William realizes that no, actually, this is not going to be a good option.

William shifts uncomfortably as both women look straight at him, and presses closer to Desmond.

"You're saying William could do it?" Rebecca asks.

"Yes," Minerva says bluntly. "He has a weaker genetic makeup, but with the influence the apple already has on him, he would be able to operate the orb. It's something to consider."

William looks up at Desmond, tears in his eyes. "I don't want to die," he says.

"I know," Desmond says, crouching down next to William. "That's not even on the table, don't worry."

"I don't want you to die either," William insists.

"I know," Desmond says again. He reaches out for William, who doesn't hesitate to lean forward into the embrace. A week ago, he would have run in the other direction, but a lot has changed since then. "I have to."

"You could just run," William whispers. Let the rest of the world take care of itself, he just wants Desmond.

"And let everyone else suffer?" Desmond asks. "William, do you remember what I said about innocents?"

"Your creed tells you that you have to protect them," William says.

"_Our_ creed," Desmond corrects. "I want you to remember that, okay?" And for some reason, the intense expression on Desmond's face makes William remember the man's confession from several days before- _"My father used to beat me…" _"Innocents deserve to be protected," Desmond says. "Never harmed. And if you… if you grow up, and have kids someday, I want you to remember that they're innocents, too."

"I'll remember," William says. "I promise! Just don't-" his voice breaks. "Don't _leave_ me!"

But Desmond picks him up and, ignoring William's protests, hands him to Rebecca. "Get him as far away as possible," he says. "Please."

"No!" William shouts, squirming to escape Rebecca's grasp even as she tightens her grip and carries him away. He screams, choking on tears he never would have expected himself capable of crying for this man. _"Desmond!"_


	7. (Part 1)Big Brother

Shaun doesn't say anything until William's sobs have vanished down the length of the temple. Then he says, "You could have let him die."

"William?" Desmond shakes his head, a quick side to side movement that allows no argument. "No."

"Not William," Shaun says. "Your father. I know you must have been tempted."

"I was," Desmond answers. "At Abstergo. That's why he's a child now, Shaun. I did that." He takes a deep breath. "On purpose, because I was mad and scared and weak. I wanted him to feel what I felt, and the apple made it seem so easy."

And this is the final confirmation of a theory Shaun has held for quite some time now. "He hit you, didn't he?" Shaun says. "You're half covered in scars, and they're old. You won't talk to anyone about what happened in the Farm, or why you left. He was scared of you because the apple made him feel what you felt, and you're scared of _him_. And that day, when we all went out together, he was terrified of what you would do to punish him for getting lost. And you said-"

"I said 'I'm not you'," Desmond finishes. "Yea, Shaun. You caught me. My dad used to hit me every time I made a mistake, or he thought I wasn't listening well enough, or because he needed a punching bag and I was the most convenient. I ran away when I was sixteen, and thought that I'd never have to see him again. So when he came back, and the apple gave me a chance at revenge, I- I took it."

Shaun nods, even though he can't understand why anyone would do that- of course, his parents had been loving and supportive, rather than abusive and violent. Maybe there's no way he _can _understand. "What changed?" he asks. "You're obviously not mad at him anymore."

"He did," Desmond says. "I got my revenge, and he… changed. He wasn't the same person, so I couldn't hate him."

"Because it was your fault?" Shaun pushes. "Is this just about guilt?"

"No!" Desmond snaps. "Come on, Shaun, the world's about to end! Is this really that important?"

"Yes," Shaun says. "Because you're about to die, and someday William is going to want to know how you really felt about him. He's going to ask, and I want to have an answer.

That makes Desmond pause, and Shaun doesn't think there is a single reason other than William that could have made him answer the way he does. "Fine," Desmond says. "I love my father, and that's the truth. I loved him when I was a kid, when he was beating the shit out of me, even when I hated him, too. I never wanted to, because he was an asshole, and it would be so much easier if I didn't care. But he's my dad. I can't help caring, and I thought I finally had a chance to have a real relationship. But now…"

Shaun nods. Over the past few days, he's seen Desmond change at least as much as William, if not more. He'd wanted to know why. Now he does, and wishes he didn't. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Desmond says. "I don't want to die with you feeling _sorry _for me."

"Fine," Shaun says, because this is not fair, this is not how the story is supposed to end, but as far as last requests go, this one costs him nothing to fill. "Go save the world already. I don't know what's taking you so long."

Desmond laughs, the saddest sound Shaun has ever heard, and waves him away. "Get out of here," he says. "We don't both have to die."

Shaun leaves, thoughts filled with questions about how terrible it must be to face a death like this alone. He's almost to the entrance when he hears Desmond screaming, a long, drawn out sound so horrible that Shaun stops dead in his tracks. And then he hears the crying, and turns back.

There's no sign of Juno when Shaun finishes retracing his steps, but the orb glows brightly with extra energy and he knows instinctively that it's worked. Then he looks down, and sees Desmond on the floor, sobbing with the heartfelt intensity of the infant he has suddenly become.

Shaun tries to be surprised, but after everything else that's happened, he can't quite manage it. Maybe this is some echo of what Desmond has done to William, cosmic payback of retribution or the magic of the orb reacting to what he's done with the apple. Regardless of the _how _or the _why_, the fact is that Desmond has gone from twenty five year old man to infant when he should have been killed.

Very gently, he bends over and gathers Desmond into his arms. The child is naked and shivering, red faced from the cold and the effort of producing his ear splitting shrieks. Shaun wraps him in the abandoned hoodie on the floor, and slowly the child quiets, giving Shaun the chance to study him more closely. He looks absolutely tiny, maybe a newborn but certainly no more than a month or two old. One arm escapes from the hoodie and waves vaguely in the air. Shaun frowns, noticing burns on the hand, fresh and raw from Desmond's interaction with the orb.

He sighs and gently tucks the arm back inside the hoodie.

When he gets out of the cave, he finds Rebecca and William waiting for him by the van. Rebecca has seen death before, so she's dry eyed, if silent and obviously still upset. William, on the other hand, seems absolutely destroyed, so Shaun approaches him first. It takes William a second or two to look up, and then he does a double take as he sees the baby.

"Is that-"

"Desmond," Shaun says.

"He was supposed to die," William protests, without taking his eyes off Desmond at all.

"I know," Shaun says. "But it made him a baby instead."

"Oh," William says. "It can do that?"

"Yes," Shaun says, and behind them Rebecca actually manages to laugh a little. One of these days, they're really going to sit William down and explain his own past to him. Later. Right now, there are more important issues to work out.

Gently, he told William to hold out his arms, and then settled Desmond securely in his arms. The infant looked up and laughed, apparently delighted at the sight of William's face. His hand escapes from the folds of the hoodie again, and William almost smiles. "He's so small," he whispers,

"He's innocent," Shaun says, because he knows this is something Desmond has really tried to emphasise to William. "He needs someone to protect him."

"I can protect him," William says, and the fierce look he points at Shaun promises that nothing bad will ever happen to the baby. Not as long as William has something to say about it.

"Are you sure?" Shaun asks. "It's a big responsibility."

"Of course I'm sure," William says. "It's _Desmond._"

"Good," Shaun said. He squeezed William's shoulder and stood up. "Hopefully you'll do a better job this time." Not that he has any plans of leaving the boys alone, not while one is an infant and the other less than ten years old. If William seems to be slipping back into his old habits, Shaun can step in and take over. He doesn't expect that he'll have to, though.

"Hey Desmond," William whispers. "I'm William. I'm going to be the best big brother ever, and you'll never have to worry about getting hurt because I'm going to protect you." His face goes hard for a second, a look of determination reminiscent of his adult self crossing his soft features. And Shaun smiles, because he's seen that look before. When William is planning an assassination, or coordinating teams, or performing any of the other hundred duties he'd had as mentor. This is the first time, however, that he's seen it pointed at Desmond. "I _promise_."

**-/-**

**Hey guys, so QUICK QUESTION.**

**I know what happens next here. Basically. I'm working on writing out all of part two (making these first seven chapters part one), and then when they're done I'll come back and post them. I just want to know if there's an actual interest- do you guys want to see what happens with baby Desmond, or when William finds out about his past, or any of the other stuff I have planned? Please feel free to leave an opinion in a review or whatever.**


	8. (Part 2)Truth Comes Out

The sound of a screaming baby wakes Shaun from a dead sleep for the third night in a row, and he groans before rolling over and burying his head in the rancid smelling motel pillow. Next to him, Rebecca sleeps on like a log, dead to the world.

"Becca," Shaun mumbles. His words are nearly inaudible through the thin pillow, but he knows full well it doesn't matter anyway. Rebecca could sleep through the end of the world if she wanted to. He kicks one foot free of the tangled blanket and nudges her. "It's your turn to get up."

The kick apparently gets her attention, but she only mumbles, "I got up last time," before rolling over and going straight back to sleep.

He'd been really hoping she wouldn't be awake enough to remember that. Shaun realizes he's lost the argument, and stumbles out of bed instead, yawning in exhaustion, looking around carefully to keep from stepping on anything or anyone.

There is only one bed in the disaster area of a motel room, and Shaun and Rebecca had claimed it at once ("because we're old," Shaun had explained). Under other circumstances, he'd be too concerned with propriety to dare sleeping in the same bed as the woman he might-or-might-not-can-we-talk-about-something-else-now be in love with. But these circumstances are hilariously far from normal, and Shaun is so exhausted he doesn't notice.

With no other choice, the two younger members of the group are asleep on the floor. William had claimed the most closed off and protected space he can find, as usual. Shaun assumes the closeness makes him feel safe, but the sight of the ex-mentor curled up under a table, broken and traumatized from an past abuses that aren't even his makes Shaun want to be angry. He wants to find someone to blame, but the man responsible for William's sudden return to childhood has been replaced with the screaming infant on the floor. And besides, Shaun reasons as he bends over and scoops Desmond off the floor. There are extenuating circumstances. Not least of which is that the injuries William has suffered are technically ones he inflicted on Desmond to begin with. He might be willing to say supernatural karma and call it a day, if William had remembered anything at all.

There's a soft scuttling noise nearby, and William pops out from under the table. In the dim light, Shaun can't see anything but a waist high shadow pressing against him to get as close as possible to Desmond.

"Go back to sleep," Shaun tells him, but William only shakes his head no.

"I wanna help," he says, and points to Desmond. "He pooped."

Shaun checks- the general stench of the room makes it hard to tell, but it turns out William's right. "Go get the clean diapers."

By the time Desmond has been changed and quieted at last, the sun is beginning to peek through the tattered blinds on the room's only window. Shaun glares at the light, eyes burning with tiredness, and thinks of the many sleep deprived nights that are surely yet to come.

"Shaun?" William whispers, and when Shaun looks down, it's light enough to see the boy looking up at him with wide eyed supplication. "Can I hold him?"

"Carefully," Shaun warns, although he knows it's an unnecessary caution. When William holds Desmond, the baby might as well be a priceless treasure for all the care he lavishes on him. Carefully, Shaun places Desmond in William's arms, and watches with a pang of jealousy as Desmond makes a noise like a cooing bird and drifts easily back to sleep. He knows there will be no more sleep for him, not for quite a while yet. He leaves the two Miles alone, and goes to get ready for whatever challenges the day might bring.

-/-

It's hard, staying off the radar while traveling with a pair of children. William is old enough to follow directions, and he knows that there are times he can argue and times he needs to do as he's told to keep all of them safe. But he's only eight, by Shaun's best guess, and he sometimes has trouble keeping up. Desmond, of course is a baby, probably three months old, and has only recently mastered holding his own head up. The hard truth is that if they continue the way they have been, constantly on the move and never staying in one place more than a day or two, all four of them will end up dead.

They need help, and Shaun isn't sure where to turn. The most obvious- maybe the only- choice is the assassins. But they will recognize William, and demand answers that Shaun's not entirely comfortable giving. And more importantly, they will tell William about his past. Shaun doesn't want him to find out like that, so after they've been on the run for a few months, Shaun takes William out for lunch.

By now he's learned (the hard way) that William won't eat food anyone else gives him, so they go to a serve yourself buffet kind of place. William is ecstatic at the choice and quantity after months of prepackaged microwave meals, and Shaun can't blame him. He lets the boy get through most of his meal before bringing up the real reason for the meal.

"William," he says. "We need to talk about where you're from."

The boy makes a face. "I know where babies come from," he says. "Rebecca told me."

Shaun frowns, momentarily distracted. "Why would she do that?" The kid's eight, he absolutely should not be having the talk for at least a couple more years.

"I asked her if all babies come from grownups," William says. He sounds miserable. "Like Desmond."

"Oh."

William nods sadly. "It was gross."

"Well that is definitely not what we're talking about," Shaun says, and William sags in visible relief. "I need to know how much you remember from before… before you came to us."

William sucks in a breath and seems to shrink back a little, pressing himself into his chair and hunching his shoulders. "Nothing," he says, with such complete conviction that Shaun doesn't believe him for a second.

Shaun's eyebrows go up. "That nothing sounds a lot like a something."

"I…" William stares down at his hands, playing with his fingers. They've finally healed from a particularly bad series of breaks, but they're still a little nobby and crooked from a lack of decent medical care. "I guess I sort of remember Desmond," he says. "But he wasn't… he wasn't really Desmond. He was mean and he hurt me. A lot."

"Those are fake memories," Shaun tells him.

"Why do I have fake memories?"

"It's complicated," Shaun says. "But you used to be an adult. You were- still are, technically- Desmond's dad." He braces himself for confusion or denial or anger, but William's first reaction is excitement.

"So we are related!" For a second, William beams across the table at Shaun, but the smile turns quickly to a kind of horror. "So all that stuff Rebecca told me, about how babies are made- I did that?"

"Yes," Shaun says, and very nearly laughs at William's expression. "But-"

"Ew! With a girl?"

"That's how babies work, yes. Listen, William, there's more. I need you to pay attention, okay?" William nods, so Shaun goes on. "You are a child now because of Desmond. He was angry and scared, and he did something bad. You know about the apple of Eden, I told you about it before." William nods again. "He used that to turn you into a child, and I think he regretted it after."

"I don't care that I'm a kid," William says. "I don't remember being a grown up, so why should I care?"

"Because he did more than just make you younger," Shaun says. "He wanted you to know how he felt as a kid, and later. He wanted you to know what it was like to have a father who…"

He watches William put the pieces together, watches his face seem to fall into something like terror and real, crushing despair. "He told me his dad beat him," he says. "I…" Angrily, he jumps to his face. His eyes are wild, like a cornered animal. He's obviously terrified. "Why did you tell me?" he shouts. "I didn't want to know!"

-/-

Desmond is teething; he cries on and off all night.

William is hurting, a deep and terrible hurt somewhere on the inside. His eyes prick with tears, but not a single one falls. He wants to scream and cry that this isn't fair, that he would never hurt Desmond, but Shaun hasn't lied to him yet. He doesn't want to, but he believes the man. And Desmond had said it himself- "My father beat me." He'd been so sad at the time, and now William knows why. And he wishes he didn't

Eventually, Desmond cries himself out and gets more or less quiet. Rebecca and Shaun sleep on, so William crawls over to Desmond and crouches down next to him. The baby is old enough now to start recognizing faces, and he thrusts his chubby arms toward William as the older boy comes close, demanding to be picked up and comforted.

"No," William says, scrambling away so quickly he hits his head on the wall behind him. He doesn't want to touch Desmond, he never wants to risk hurting him again, not even by accident. Desmond shrieks at him, a short and unhappy noise that makes William feel even worse. But he doesn't move, not even when Desmond stretches out as far as he can after him. After a few minutes he gives up and flops back down, still whimpering quietly from the pain in his mouth.

"Don't cry," William whispers, even as he wishes his own tears would fall. He wants to comfort, to hold Desmond and make his every problem go away. But there's no point. Teething is normal, and the pain will eventually pass. What William has done to Desmond is way worse because it doesn't go away. He knows it doesn't, because thanks to Desmond he's felt it, too. Every scar on his body, every half healed injury, these are all the pains he'd first given to Desmond, now come back to haunt him as well.

And suddenly he's glad for the pain. He deserves it all, and even more. He deserves to be dead.

William buries his head on his knees and still cannot cry. He digs his fingernails into his palms because he's angry and he wants to hurt, to give himself some piece of the punishment he knows he deserves. He's angry, at himself and at the monster inside him that hurts people. In his imagination, he feels the man he used to be crawling around, an oozing black snake, sticky and oily and impossible to get rid of.

"Hey…"

He feels a hand on his shoulder, and recognizes Rebecca's soft voice in his ear. When he opens his eyes and pulls his head up, she's crouched right in front of him, hair still a mess from sleep, eyes obviously worried. "Shaun told me what happened," she says. "Are you… how do you feel?"

William doesn't answer. He can't. Whatever he used to be, now he is only a child. He doesn't know the right words to explain the complicated emotions trying to rip him apart. Rebecca doesn't speak again either, but there's a sympathy on her face that he doesn't deserve.

When they leave the next morning, William takes the photograph of him and Desmond out of his pocket. Regretfully, he lays it on the motel table and walks away. It is a memory of a happy time, one that he now knows is a lie. He doesn't deserve those memories anymore.

**-/-**

**Hey guys, I'm back, with the promised part two. It's a little shorter this time- five chapters and a shortish epilogue. Hopefully you enjoy part two, and cry at some point in the next few chapters.**


	9. (Part 2)Inner Demons

There are no other kids at the assassin safe house where they go next. For a few days, William gets a lot of weird looks and comments that go right over his head. Everyone seems to expect him to be the man he used to be, not the boy he is now. He spends his time hiding and avoiding everyone, and eventually the others seem to dismiss him as 'just a kid' and leave him alone. Which is good, except that he is left alone with Desmond.

Most days, everyone else is so busy that William is left to care for the baby alone. A week ago, he would have been overjoyed at the opportunity, but now it makes his stomach twist. He already knows he's a bad father. He doesn't want to prove himself a bad brother as well. Shaun and Rebecca help as much as they can, but most of the time they're too busy and so it's just William, never quite knowing what to do and scared out of his mind.

The worst of it is that Desmond won't stop loving him. He's never happy unless he's with William. He cries and cries when they're apart, and it seems like he's always reaching out toward the other boy. It doesn't matter how much William pushes him away, how sternly he tells Desmond no, how little he lets himself touch the baby. Desmond seems to have some instinct for family that William can't escape. So he just grits his teeth and tries to pretend he doesn't want this. But he wants… he wants Desmond to love him so, so much. It's just that he will never deserve that.

A few months pass. In July, when Desmond is seven months old, William walks into the room where the baby is supposed to be taking a nap, and stops dead in the doorway. There's a woman in the room, one he hasn't seen before. She seems to be in her mid to late fifties, tired through to her bones, but still lean in a way William has come to associate with active assassins. She smiles at Desmond, who looks at her with the single minded adoration he usually reserves for William. He babbles happily in a singsong baby language, shrieking with delighted laughter when the woman responds as if she really understands.

The woman looks up at William and smiles with visible effort. "It's been a while," she says.

Desmond reaches for William, hopeful as ever that his affection will be returned. But the woman picks him up instead, balancing him easily against her body with one hand as if she's done this many times before.

"What?" William frowns, backing up a step or two as she comes closer. His mind has gone completely blank. There's something going on here that he doesn't understand.

The woman kneels in front of him, and smiles sadly. The hand that isn't supporting Desmond reaches out, and William closes his eyes as she strokes his forehead gently. "You really don't remember me," she says. "They said you wouldn't, but I thought… maybe…"

"No," William says. "Sorry."

She pulls away, and William opens his eyes just in time to see something complicated and deep cross her face. "My name's Katherine," she says. "Miles."

"Miles?"

"Desmond's mother."

"Oh." No, no! He's not ready for this, he doesn't know what to say. It doesn't look like Katherine does either, and eventually it's Desmond that breaks the silence. He starts babbling again, tone almost disapproving as if he understands that they're not getting along, and that they should be, and that he wants them to be.

"Rebecca tells me you don't like to touch him," Katherine says. "She's worried. So's Shaun."

"I'm not going to hurt him this time," William says. "They don't have to worry."

"They're worried about you," Katherine corrects. "You… listen, William. You were a terrible father."

"I know," William whispers, flinching away. "I'm sorry."

"But I was a terrible mother," Katherine goes on. "I didn't know for sure, not at first, but I suspected. And then I made all kinds of excuses because I didn't know what else to do." She stands and paces angrily, Desmond still held tightly to her side. "I want to be angry with you, now that I can't make excuses anymore. And God help me, if you were still a man, I'd give you something to think about, I promise you that. If I were you, I'd do the same thing regardless. But you're just a child now, and some of us don't hurt children."

"I'm sorry," he says, because he's miserable and confused and doesn't really understand what's going on. "But you should be angry. I deserve it."

She stops pacing at that, and studies him for a long moment. Then, without warning, she swoops down and pulls him into a tight embrace. William breathes in deeply, the smell of her somehow reminding him of things he can't actually remember. Love and safety and protection and more. "The man I knew never apologized," she says. "Even when he knew he was wrong. You've already done so three times. You're already different from him. You can be better."

Somehow, when she pulls away and heads for the door, she's managed to transfer Desmond into William's arms. He hadn't even noticed.

"Wait!" he calls after her. "Won't you take him? You're his mother!"

She stops in the doorway long enough to look back. "No," she says. "I would if I could, believe me. But I'm needed in the field, and that life is too dangerous for someone Desmond's age."

"But-"

"Besides. He deserves better than the parents he had last time." She smiles a little before turning her back again. "Let this be a fresh start," she says. "For both of you."

William looks down at Desmond, more confused than ever.

Desmond watches his mother leave, tiny face screwed up in worry. When she doesn't come back he starts to wail, squirming and kicking in William's arms.

-/-

His dream that night is filled with a billowing, blood red fog that burns his lungs and stings his eyes. Everything is disjointed and blurry, time and space seeming to break apart so that he can't quite focus on what's going on around him. He stumbles forward, feet sticking in something thick and warm and crimson that smells like sulfur and clings to him like glue, pulling him down like quicksand if he stays still too long. Ever step is a struggle, but William is too afraid of sinking to stay still. So he walks on anyway.

(-)

He stops when he hears Desmond's screams in the distance, not the normal cries William has come by now to recognize, but something long and shrill, like pure pain. William feels his stomach flip over in fear and he struggles all the harder to move forward. His heart hammers in a terrified drumbeat, and the screams do not stop.

(-)

Desmond is being held in the arms of an older man with graying hair and sharp eyes when William finally finds him. He rests atop the sucking quicksand of the ground, as if he's lord and master of this terrible place. Everywhere he touches Desmond, the baby's skin erupts into angry red burns. Desmond arches his back, still screaming, writhing in terrible pain. Steam hisses from the points of contact between the man's hand and Desmond. The air stinks of burning flesh.

(-)

When the man looks William in the eye, it's obvious who he is. The man pulls one hand away from Desmond look enough to beckon William closer, and William feels his feet moving almost of their own will. He can't stop himself until finally he halts. He's only a few inches away from the-man-he-used-to-be, and all he can do is look up at himself, miserable and voiceless.

(-)

The older-William whispers to Desmond, quiet words of malice and hatred, all spoken in a tone that might be mistaken for love if William didn't know any better. When the screams continue, older-William tuts and puts one hand over Desmond's mouth. Desmond chokes, struggling for air. His screams trail off and finally fade, body sagging limply as he runs out of oxygen. William watches as his older self tosses Desmond's body aside, careless and chillingly casual. The last thing William sees before the baby's corpse is sucked into the thick sludge is a pair of glassy, staring eyes.

(-)

"It's for his own good," older-William explains. "Desmond cannot be allowed to grow up soft. There is too much at stake."

He's just a child, William argues.

"No," older-William says. "He's not. In time, children grow up. They become adults, they remain merely human. Desmond can transcend all that. He is a tool, and when it is forged in fire, a tool can become a weapon."

(-)

Older-William looks up as Desmond appears suddenly in front of them. He is older now, twenty something like he was in William's first memories. His body is still marred, ruined and smoking, smeared with burning handprints. There is a fire burning in his eyes.

"Tools do as they're told," older-William says. He makes a short, sharp gesture and Desmond lunges at William, arms outstretched, eyes still staring and glassy blank.

(-)

The ground pulls him down, keeps him from running. Desmond's fingers wrap themselves around his throat, burning, squeezing, choking. William sinks to his knees, pulling weakly at Desmond's hands, but they're hard and immovable like iron. He falls to the ground, and cannot stop himself from sinking into it. He feels a puff of wind on his hair and then the surface closes over the top of his head, submerging him completely. Desmond lets go and retreats, leaving William to sink down and down and down, completely alone.

(-)

He sinks for a long time, until everything is fire and he's burning on the inside, a fierce anger in his heart that he can't extinguish, and he embraces it in the end because at least it proves that he's alive.

(-)

He stands on top of the quicksand, and it does not consume him. He is burning up, but it is the anger that fills him. He sees Desmond in front of him, Desmond as William remembers him from New York, Desmond who is kind, Desmond who loves him, Desmond who had sacrificed himself to save the world and William in particular.

And William says, "Tools do as they're told."

No, Desmond says, and his eyes are not blank now, they are terrified and pleading. Don't, please!

William strikes anyway, lashing out with everything he has, the flames in his fists matching the fire in his heart. Desmond is screaming and William is laughing, laughing, laughing-

-/-

He wakes to the quiet of his own room, terror thudding like a living thing in his chest next to his heart. William gulps back sobs, eyes dry and tearless as ever. Then he bolts out of bed, moving so quickly his feet tangle in the sheets and he falls with a thump.

William shakes the blanket away and stands. His room is small and mostly bare- his prized possession, the camera Desmond had given him in New York, is within easy reach. William grabs it up and screams, smashing is against the wall so that it shatters into a hundred pieces. He doesn't deserve the gift, doesn't deserve any kindness at all. He'd felt real anger in that dream, and knows he can't control it. He's terrified of it coming out while he is awake.

He's a monster, a demon, and he wishes he were dead because then at least Desmond would be safe from him.

Something sharp, some shattered remnant of the camera, stabs at the bottom of his foot as he moves and William dives to the ground, searching blindly until his fingers stumble on a piece that's sharp like a knife and he clutches it awkwardly in his fist before turning his hand and stabbing himself, over and over again, everywhere on his body that he can reach. And he screams and he laughs with every new wound because there is pain, but it's a good pain. Blood runs in trickles down his arms and chest and he revels in the feeling because he just wants all this to end, because the only good thing he can do now is to protect Desmond by getting rid of himself. Every stab brings him closer to Desmond's safety, but it still hurts, and he is afraid.

Footsteps thunder toward his room from the hall, and the door slams open hard enough that it seems to shake the world. There are people suddenly, crowding the tiny space, pressing in around him but he doesn't care, not until a large hand grabs him by the arm and pulls him back, hard, forcing his fist open so that he drops the improvised knife.

"No!" William screams, struggling to free himself. A second hand wraps around his chest, holding him still. William continues his protest, words choked and incomprehensible to his own ears. "No, you can't, you can't! I have to- he has to be safe- No-!"

His voice gives out completely, and he swallows hard as wet, sticky blood drips from his fingers.

"Someone go find out if Katherine's left yet," a man orders, and William recognizes the shock and fear in his voice even if he can't focus enough to recognize the man it belongs to quite yet.

"She's leaving now," a second voice says, and the first voice curses.

"Then stop her," he snaps. "And bring her here. Now."

The noise finally wakes Desmond in the room next door, and his frightened sobs make William redouble his efforts to free himself. He has to protect Desmond, to keep him safe from the man- the monster- he had been, and knows now that he will be again. He screams hoarsely, a counterpoint to Desmond's sobs. The world's most horrifying duet.

Later- he does not know exactly when- a woman comes bursting into the room, pushing aside the men and women that stand there helplessly staring. She takes one look at William (bloody, crouched on the floor, and screaming like a mad thing) before dropping to her knees in front of him. She ignores the broken camera on the floor, and wraps William tightly in a hug he is not prepared for. He breathes in her scent- one breath, then two- registering something warm and spicy and comforting in a way he does not understand.

Then he breaks- the man holding him draws back and William wraps his lacerated arms around Katherine, squeezing her tight.

"There, there," the woman sighs, and finally William recognizes Katherine. "I don't know which of you is worse- you or Desmond."

He whimpers into her shoulder, and she rubs circles into his back. "My beautiful, broken boys," she murmurs, and William can only stay as he is, wrapped in her arms and listening to Desmond's screams until someone finally manages to quiet him.

And still, he cannot cry.


	10. (Part 2)Breaking

They give William something to make him sleep, some pills crushed and diluted in food so it won't overwhelm his system. Then Katherine carries him gently upstairs to the improvised medical wing, to deal with his newly inflicted injuries.

Shaun stands guard over the boy while Rebecca and Katherine go looking for medicine. The rest of the assassins in the house have disappeared, stunned into silence by the unwatchable tragedy of what they have seen already. Shaun can't blame them. He can hardly stand to remember it himself, and his mind shies away from the memories when he tries to focus to them. It's like he thinks if he just ignores everything that happened, somehow it will all be undone and everything will be normal again.

He knows it won't be. They've been trying- after the initial, obvious surprise of the transformation- to treat William like any normal child. But he's not normal. They've been ignoring the implications of his history because it's too difficult to deal with. The problem is that it leaves William to figure all of this out on his own, and clearly he can't.

Shaun has no idea what had made the boy snap so suddenly, what he'd seen or thought or heard that finally broke him into a million pieces, but the results are brutally obvious. It's only their next steps that are impossible to decide on.

Katherine comes back with bandages and salve. "We should strip him," she says, after examining William in silence for a moment. "The clothes look like they're covering some of the worst injuries."

"Are you okay with this?" Shaun asks, even as she starts to pull off clothes, cutting away the fabric in the places where dried blood makes it stick to him.

"Nothing I haven't seen before," Katherine says, tone surprisingly businesslike.

"But-"

"I used to do this for Desmond," she interrupts, and Shaun reluctantly accepts the change in subject. "When William would beat the shit out of him, he'd come to me for help, and I-" her face is pale and empty. "God forgive me, I never helped. I wrapped his wounds, gave him stitches, whatever he needed, but I never really helped. I never made things better."

"What could you have done?"

"To stop my husband from torturing our son?" She shakes her head. "There's so much I could have done, Shaun. But I never did."

They go on in silence for a little joins them as they survey the true extent of William's injuries. The sight is grim, and reminds Shaun uncomfortably of how William had looked when he first became a child. Except this time, the wounds are fresh and entirely self inflicted. The blood oozes slowly from injuries that are shallow and survivable through sheer luck alone. Had he gotten his hands on a more deadly weapon, Shaun has no doubt that they would be looking at a corpse. Stab wounds and scratches cover his chest, stomach, face, and arms, evidence of his desperate efforts to tear apart every inch of his body that he can reach. The hand that had held the makeshift knife is bloody and lacerated, twitching uselessly even in sleep.

"He shouldn't have done this," Rebecca says. "This is… what was he trying to do, kill himself?"

"Most likely," Katherine says. She rips off a long strip from the bandage roll and begins to wrap the worst of the injuries without apparent emotion.

"Something must have set him off," Rebecca says. "He's been quiet recently, but there's no reason for something like this, not out of the blue."

"I guess we'll have to wait until he wakes up to see if he wants to talk," Shaun says. But Rebecca's right- there's just no reason for William to have reacted like he did. He hadn't just been angry, he'd been afraid as well, out of control and inarticulate with some intense emotion that makes sense to no one but him.

Shaun had been the first one into the room. He'd been the one to force the boy's hand back to hold him still as he struggled and writhed as if possessed. "Something has to change," he says. "This isn't okay."

"No," Katherine agrees. Rebecca finishes wrapping his mangled mess of a hand and Katherine takes it gently, rubbing her thumb over his tiny fingers. "This whole situation is very far from okay."

Shaun watches her face, then her hands, and sees the sadness hidden there. "This must be hard for you," he says.

"Of course," Katherine says. "Especially because this should have been the best thing that could possibly happen to him."

"How so?" Shaun looks back at her face, startled.

"A second chance is exactly what he needs," Katherine says. "The man I married wasn't cruel, Shaun," she says. "He cared for people, and wanted the best for everyone. That was why I fell in love with him to begin with. But somewhere along the way, he… lost sight of that. He saw the templars getting stronger, and good people losing their lives." She smiles weakly at Shaun without taking her eyes off William. "He's always been so passionate."

This, at least, is difficult to argue. He's seen how firm William had been in his love for Desmond, once he convinced himself to stop being afraid.

Katherine goes on. "When caring for people could no longer protect him, that's when he got angry. Kindness couldn't help, so he tried anger. I think… maybe that's why he was so cruel to Desmond. It's not an excuse, I know. Not at all. But if he thought he was preparing him for the threats he would face in the real world, he wouldn't hesitate to do what he did." She sighs. "And anger is such a difficult habit to break. Regressing back to childhood might be the only thing that could ever do that for him."

"Or maybe it's still not enough," Shaun says. "Look what's happened already."

"Don't you dare," Katherine says. She doesn't let go of William's hand, but she twists so that she's suddenly glaring right at Shaun. With her other hand, she jabs a finger at his face. "Don't you dare give up on him. He's been hurt and broken and you-" Shaun actually takes a step backward as the accusatory gesture. "You were the one that told him what kind of man he used to be. That would have been enough to break almost any child, and you should have known that. You don't have the right of giving up on him after that."

"Okay," Shaun manages to say. He would have agreed to basically anything at this point just to keep Katherine and her angry finger pointed at someone else. "I won't give up on him."

"We won't," Rebecca corrects. "You… you still love him, don't you?"

Katherine nods, seeming to suddenly deflate a little.

"How?" Shaun asks. "I mean- we all know what kind of man he was. And now that he's a kid, loving him is- well it's a little sick, isn't it?"

"You've never been in love, have you?" Katherine asks, and suddenly Shaun feels his face go bright red, and his eyes are glued to the floor. He's very aware of Rebecca only a few feet away. "Love isn't something that goes away when the person you love changes. Not if it's real love. That would be a sad and stagnant relationship. Love... it evolves over time. You change, and the person you love changes, and the quality of that love itself changes too. I don't- I can't love William the way I did when he was an adult. But yes, Shaun. I do still love him, and I want him to be safe and happy. At it's basic level, that's all love is." She smirks. "I do not want to make love to him. I am not, as you so eloquently said, 'sick'."

"Sorry," Shaun says. "I didn't mean-"

"Don't be sorry," Katherine says. "Be better. Don't let this happen again." Her words have a final sound to them and she stands, reluctantly pulling her hand away from William's. In his sleep, his fingers clutch at the empty space where she had been.

"You're still leaving?" Rebecca asks.

"The missions I run are no less important than they were when I got here." She manages a small cell that specializes in breaking and entering, stealing into closely guarded Abstergo facilities and coming away with important information or objects. The cell has an improbably low mortality rate, despite running some of the most dangerous missions in the order. It's no secret that this is mostly thanks to Katherine's efforts. She has a good argument for going, and a good reason for leaving her family behind. There are people waiting on her.

"You should at least wait until he wakes up," Rebecca says.

"No," Katherine says. "I think it's better that I just leave now. You must have noticed he only got worse after I arrived. I… would like to see Desmond again before I leave, though."

"Sure," Shaun says. "Of course."

The two of them leave, walking in silence until they come to Desmond's tiny room. It's barely the size of a walk in closet, but they're pressed for space and it's not like Desmond cares. Besides, the assassins living in the safehouse have taken to Desmond with an enthusiasm that is almost surprising. There are eight of them permanently living at the base now, ranging from seven month old Desmond to an octogenarian relic named Samuel who has one eye and an apparently permanent smell of rotten eggs.

They are hard men and women, all of them, but they dote on Desmond with almost alarming enthusiasm. They've painted his walls a cheerful blue, and his ceiling dark grey with a field of stars. His crib is wedged into the far end of the room, under the constellation of aquila. The rest of the floor is covered in a thick rug, and cluttered with toys bought or stolen or crafted by hand. The assassins don't often get to care for something as innocent as a baby and it shows now that they have the opportunity with Desmond.

It's a far cry from William's dull and barren room next door, and Shaun wonders how he's allowed that to happen. He should have paid more attention, should have made sure William feels as welcome here as Desmond does. Is it because he's older than Desmond, and therefore apparently less in need of these childish comforts? Or is it because they all remember the cold and distant mentor he had been only a few months ago?

Either way, he makes a mental note to change this as soon as possible.

"Come here," Katherine says, pulling Desmond gently from his crib. "Say bye bye to momma."

Desmond doesn't- he's too young to start talking- but he wraps his chubby arms around her and rests his head on her shoulder. Katherine moves her hand in slow circles across his back, crooning something sad and melodic that is probably a lullaby. Shaun watches from the doorway, hand pressed nervously against the frame. This feels private, like he is an intruder in a scene that was never meant to include him, but he doesn't leave. Finally, Katherine plants a kiss on Desmond's forehead, and hands him reluctantly back to Shaun. The baby is asleep, his calm breaths a steady rhythm against Shaun's chest. "Take good care of him," Katherine whispers. "Take damn good care of both of them."

"I wouldn't dare do anything else," Shaun says. "You're terrifying."

This seems to be enough for Katherine, because she smiles- the first smile Shaun has seen from anyone for hours- and leaves without saying another word.

-/-

"What do we do when he wakes up?"

It's not a question that surprises Shaun, exactly. He and Rebecca are outside, sitting on opposite ends of an ancient wooden bench of the safehouse, looking out at the perfectly normal suburban neighborhood that surrounds them in every direction. Birds chirp from rows of trees lining the street, and the sun rises slowly over the sloping peaks of nearly identical houses to the east. Across the street, a neighbor in a suit and tie scowls at them on his way from his front door to his car. The condescending way he looks at them is exactly what Shaun does not need right now, and he loses his temper a little.

"Hey!" he shouts. The man scoffs and starts to turn away. "Yea, you! I'm talking to you! Why don't you take a picture? It'll last longer!"

"Why don't you go back to where you came from?" the man yells back, in what is apparently an attack on Shaun's accent. "This is America!"Shaun half gets up, too angry to think about the consequences, and Rebecca pulls him back down.

"We're supposed to be keeping a low profile," she hisses at him. "Not fighting with the neighbors!"

Shaun huffs and looks away- the man makes a rude gesture in response. "Yea, that's right!" he shouts. "Listen to your girlfriend! At least the bitch belongs in this country!"

Shaun stares at him, but before he can so much as move, Rebecca bounces to her feet. "That is it!" she shouts, and Shaun hasn't realized how upset she is by everything that's happened until she's halfway across the yard, apparently ready to punch the guy in the face. The only thing that saves the neighbor from a nasty black eye is one of the other assassins coming out to tell them William is waking up. It's possibly the only piece of news capable of stopping Rebecca in her tracks- had he announced instead that the templars are on their way, Shaun expects a squadron of Abstergo owned vans would have driven up the street a few minutes later to find Rebecca beating the crap out of their neighbor.

"You win this time," she snaps at the neighbor.

"I win every time," he quips, before getting in his car and driving away. Very quickly.

"Asshole," Rebecca mumbles, and Shaun pats her comfortingly (cautiously) on the back. She sighs. "Come on. Let's go see how William's feeling."

It's not until they're on their way upstairs that Shaun remembers Rebecca's earlier question (what do we do when he wakes up?) and realizes they'd never come up with a good answer.

They find William sitting up in bed, picking half heartedly at the bandages on his hand. There's an expression of extreme concentration on his face as he stares at the wall across the room, as if struggling through a difficult problem.

"Hey, bud," Rebecca says. She sits down next to him but he flinches away, scooting across the width of the bed so that he's as far away as possible. "How are you feeling?"

It's a stupid question to ask an eight year old that had tried to rip himself open with a broken piece of plastic the night before, but Shaun can't think of anything better to say. William looks at her, then at Shaun, then down at his lap.

There's something very sad here, tragic even, something that Shaun feels instinctively cannot be touched by anything he and Rebecca might do or say. He considers the problem briefly, then goes to get the one person in the house that could possibly make a dent in the armor of unhappy pain William has thrown up around himself.

Desmond is asleep when Shaun walks in, but wakes as Shaun gently picks him up. He smells a bit like a dead skunk, so Shaun takes a few minutes to change his diaper before going back to William and Rebecca. He's half worried things will have gotten worse while he was away, but it looks like nothing has changed. The second William sees Desmond, he panics.

"No!" he protests. "No!" He actually jumps from the bed, half falling, and presses himself against the wall. His hands disappear between his back and the wall, as if he's afraid of what he'll do if he has the chance. Upset by the shouting, Desmond starts to wail as well.

"Hold out your arms," Shaun says.

"NO!"

"Shaun," Rebecca says. "Maybe this isn't such a good idea."

But Desmond is the only thing William has really reacted to since waking up, and Shaun can't see any other way of finding out what's wrong with him. "William," he says, just loudly enough to be heard over Desmond's ongoing tantrum. "You're either going to hold Desmond, or you're going to explain to me why you won't."

"I'm gonna hurt him if I touch him!" William says. "He'll burn to death and I don't- I can't touch him!"

"You've touched him before," Shaun says, a little taken aback by the specificness of William's fear, but trying to hide it. "He seems okay to me."

"He's crying!"

"Because you're yelling and upsetting him," Shaun says. "He's a baby, William. It's normal for him not to like loud noises."

"But I…" he shudders like a leaf in the wind, and the words come tumbling out. "I dreamed about the grown up me, and he was really mean and made Desmond dead and then I was just like him and I was really mad and I hurt Desmond too-" the explanation dissolves into sobs, his bony shoulders shaking as he cries. He brings his unbandaged hand up to his face, and it's clenched in a fist so tight the knuckles are actually white. William bites down on his fingers to keep from crying aloud, and Shaun realizes with a kind of icy shock just how broken Willim is. This is so much shit going on in his head, so much inherited from William and so much developed all on his own. It's breaking him into tiny pieces, and even if he's not going to ask for it, he needs every bit of help he can get.

Shaun balances Desmond in one arm, and reaches forward to pull William's hand from his mouth. The boy can't seem to summon enough energy to resist, and his sbs gradually becomes audible as Shaun guides William's hand toward Desmond.

"No…" William moans. "Please…"

Desmond, still crying himself, sniffles and grabs for William's hand the moment it's within reach, pulling it toward himself with stubborn determination. William stares at their hands together for a moment. His tears go quiet.

"You're not hurting him," Shaun says.

"...but what if I do someday?"

"That's your choice," Shaun says. "Cruel or kind, it's up to you."


	11. (Part 2)Comfort

William's entire body is covered with the punishments he'd given himself for the crime of existing, and it's obvious they will not heal quickly. Rebecca gives him a long list of things he is not supposed to do right now, and William hangs his head and promises to behave. He is still not sure if Desmond is safe with him around, but no one else seems to want him gone. Desmond, least of all.

He spends the next morning with the baby, closeted away in Desmond's tiny room. One of the assassins has given Desmond a set of soft blocks with letters carefully stitched onto the sides. Desmond seems mostly interested in hitting them together, shrieking in laughter when he loses his grip and sends one flying at the wall.

William lets him play without interruption. He lies sprawled out on the floor next to the baby, gently playing with his impossibly tiny feet, working up the courage to pick him up and hold him again. It's still sort of hard to believe Desmond isn't burning at his touch, as he had in William's dream. It had all seemed so horrifyingly real at the time, and William thinks that in some ways it had been. The man in his dreams is a part of him and his past (or future), someone he had once been and is terrified that he will one day be again.

Slowly, William runs his fingers up Desmond's leg, touching gently because he's still afraid of what he can do with his own hands. This is the point when Desmond decides he's bored with blocks, and flips from his stomach to his back, smiling broadly at the achievement. He looks so proud that William finds himself smiling back without any conscious thought. Desmond makes a happy burbling noise and thrusts his arms into the air, watching William expectantly. William takes a deep breath, screwing up his courage before sitting up and pulling Desmond into his lap. The baby leans back against his stomach, babbling on and on in baby talk as though the sounds actually have some kind of meaning.

When Desmond stops for breath, William leans down and hugs him, carefully, tight but not tight enough to hurt him. His own injuries protest at the movement, but William barely notices. Desmond giggles and sticks a hand up and into William's face. It smells like milk and baby powder, a familiar scent by now, and it makes William smile.

"I wish I had a camera right now."

William looks up, surprised to remember that Shaun is nearby, a constant if atypically silent watchdog. He's grateful for the oversight, even if he won't admit it.

"Mine's broken," he mumbles, dropping his eyes.

"I know," Shaun says. "You smashed it into a wall. Do you want to talk about that?"

"You're gonna make me whether I want to or not, aren't you?"

"Probably," Shaun admits. I'm worried about you, because I know that camera was important to you, but you still smashed it up without considering the consequences."

"Desmond gave it to me," William says. In his lap, Desmond looks up at the sound of his name.

"Yea," Shaun says. "I know, that's exactly my point. Why would you-"

"I don't deserve it," William says, all in a rush before he can lose his nerve. He tries to explain, to make Shaun understand. "I hurt him. Why was he nice to me? He should have been so mean." He looks up at Shaun, hoping that the man can give him the explanation he so desperately needs. "Why?"

"I don't know," Shaun says. William nods, already half turning away as he feels the hopeful expression fall from his face. It's the answer he'd expected, because after all there can be no good explanation for Desmond's kindness.

"Hey," Shaun says, catching him gently by the shoulder and turning William back around. "I wasn't done yet. I don't know why Desmond forgave you, but the fact is that he did. That still matters, whatever his exact reasons were."

"But I don't deserve it!"

"You're missing the point," Shaun says, and he sounds frustrated, almost angry. "Forgiveness isn't something you earn. It's just given, whether you think you should have it or not."

"But that was when he was bigger," William argues. "If I hurt him again, now that he's little, he'll hate me again."

"So don't hurt him!" Shaun says. "It's not that hard."

"I'm scared," William says. "What if it's an accident? What if I can't help it? What if I just lose control and get angry?" What if he wants to hurt Desmond again, the way he had in his dream?

Shaun scoffs. "Don't be ridiculous," he says. "You're better than that."

It shouldn't be comforting. Shaun is sarcastic and weird and sometimes mean, but he sounds like he has so much confidence in William that it actually makes him feel better. For a few seconds, anyway. Then he remembers the camera, and he turns sad again. "I wish I hadn't done it," he says. "Broken the camera."

"Yes," Shaun agrees. "That was wrong of you. Desmond gave that to you as a gift, and you threw it away because you got mad. You can't ever take that back."

"Are you trying to make me feel better?" Because it's not working. He feels more miserable than before, if anything.

"No," Shaun says. "I want you to know that there are still consequences to what you've done."

As if he doesn't know that already, from every angry wound on his body, and the ever growing guilt in his chest. He nods anyway.

"But… I also need you to know that it's not all your fault. We shouldn't have left you alone to figure things out. Rebecca and I are going to make sure we're around more from now on. You shouldn't have to deal with this all by yourself."

"Thank you," William says. They're not exactly what he wants, but Desmond is in no position to help him, and he can at least admit that he needs someone. Shaun and Rebecca are still better than most people would be.

"Here," Shaun says, and William frowns as the man hands him something. Desmond reaches out happily to grab it, and Shaun smiles as he avoids the baby's grasping fingers. "Not for you, Des."

It's a picture, and William recognizes it by the worn edges and bent corners even before he turns it over to see the image itself. It's the picture Shaun had taken of him and (the still adult) Desmond back in the temple. "How did you get this?" William demands. "I left it behind before we came here!"

"I picked it up and brought it with," Shaun says. "You think I'd let you leave something that important behind? I've just been waiting for the right moment to give it back." He arches an eyebrow. "Are you going to lose it again?"

"No!" William says. "Never." He holds the picture out so that Desmond can see it, but can't quite reach it with his constantly sticky fingers. "Look," he says quietly. "It's me and you, see?"

Desmond cuddles against his chest and smiles at the picture.

-/-

Later that night, when Desmond has been fed and bathed and put to sleep, William retreats back to his tiny room. The light on one lamp is not enough to chase the shadows or memories of the night before away. He huddles on his bed, tired but too afraid to actually close his eyes.

The photo Shaun had given back to him is pinned on the wall next to his bed, but while it had been a comfort and a relief when he'd gotten it back, now… well, now it is a threat. _Be better, or else. Desmond deserves better. _And besides, this is the room where he'd had the nightmare, where the old memories and demons had gotten inside his head and turned everything upside down. The shards of broken camera on the floor have been cleaned up at some point, but William can still see them in his mind. When he closes his eyes, he doesn't see darkness, he sees the face of his older self, staring and leering, urging him back toward hatred.

"William?"

He jumps and presses himself against the wall, banging his elbow so that it starts to sting. It hurts a lot and he pulls it close to his chest in a frightened and defensive move. He sniffs a little and looks up to see Rebecca standing in the doorway.

"Hi," he manages to say at last.

"How do you feel?" She crosses the small room in three steps and climbs up on his bed next to him.

"Fine," he lies.

"You're not tired?"

"I am," he says, and when she puts her arm around his shoulders, he leans his head against her side. His eyes keep trying to close, but he won't let them. He's too afraid.

"Are you scared?" she asks.

William almost says no, but it's too big of a lie and in the end he can't. He just stays quiet and still.

"It's okay if you're scared," she says. "I'm scared, too."

"Why?" He tilts his head up to look at her more closely. "What do you have to be scared for?"

"Because I want you to be happy," Rebecca says. "I want Desmond to be happy. I want both of you to be safe, and I don't know if I can protect you from the bad guys outside."

"What about the bad guy in my head?" William asks, and Rebecca hugs him closer. "I'm…" he manages to admit it now. "I'm scared he's going to come back if I go to sleep again."

"You have to sleep sometime."

"I don't want to!"

She's quiet for a moment, thinking this over. Then she pulls away from William, dropping off the bed. "Becca!" he protests. He's not ready for her to go yet.

"I'll be right back," she promises. "Don't worry."

But he does worry, and he doesn't stop for the five or ten minutes he's left waiting on his own before Rebecca comes back and rejoins him on the bed. "I forgot to give this to you," she says. "Katherine brought it when she came to visit. I mean, technically she brought it for Desmond, but I think you need it more than he does."

It's a teddy bear, and William frowns at first it and then Rebecca. "I can't take Desmond's toys," he protests.

"Desmond has enough toys," Rebecca says. "Think of it like a present from Katherine _and_ Desmond, if that helps."

"I broke the last present Desmond gave me."

"Then be more careful with this one."

He takes the bear carefully. It's soft and brown, the perfect size for holding. "Thank you."

"Of course," she says, and helps him lie down under the sheets. "Are you going to be okay if I leave?"

"I think so," he says, even though he's not exactly sure. But she takes him at his word and leaves, switching off the light on her way out but leaving the door open just in case. William closes his eyes, tight, tight, tight, to block out the nightmares. And he hugs the bear close, something to anchor him and keep him safe, because it is a reminder that for some strange reason, there are people in the world that love him.

-/-

A few weeks pass in relative peace, and things start to get a little bit better. At the end of July, as temperatures soar to unseasonably high temperatures, William starts to get restless. He's been confined to the house more or less constantly since he'd had the nightmare and hurt himself, but eventually Rebecca comes to inform him that they're going to spend the day shopping.

Shopping is boring, but it's still better than staying trapped in the house so William agrees at once. "What are we shopping for?" he asks when they're in the car, speeding away from the safehouse he hasn't left in far too long.

"You," Rebecca says.

"What?" he stares at her from the backseat. "Why?"

"Well, there's a couple of reasons," Rebecca says. "First, me and Shaun have been talking lately. We want to get you some stuff from your room so it doesn't look so empty. Would you like that?"

William nods, cautious because he's expecting a catch, but also excited because he wants to be able to personalize his room a little.

"And… we need to get you some school supplies."

There's the catch. "School!" he almost shouts his objection, jerking forward so quickly his seat belt catches him and pulls him back. "I don't want to go to school!" School means other kids, it means trying to pretend he's normal when he's anything but, it means leaving Desmond, it means being on his own for the first time he can remember.

"I know," Rebecca says. "But we're kind of in a tight spot here. Shaun and I have managed to piss off- make one of the neighbors angry."

"I heard," William says. It would be hard not to- they shout insults and arguments across the street at the neighbor in question every time one of them leaves the house. It had started around the same time as his nightmare, and had only gotten worse from there. "So? What does that have to do with me going to school?"

"He's trying to get us evicted," Rebecca explains. "Doing everything he can think of to get us kicked out of the neighborhood. So we need to keep our heads down and follow the rules for a little while. You're eight. That means you should be enrolled in school when it starts this year."

"I don't want to go to school though! Why can't we just leave?"

Rebecca only shakes her head. "This is one of our last safe houses in North America, and we can't afford to lose it."

"But-"

"Especially not to some Rupert Fucking Westing-Smithe," she adds, angrily enough that William can tell this has gotten personal, and quietly enough that he can tell he wasn't supposed to hear. Cowed slightly, he pretends that he hasn't and argues no more as they drive on.

Once he accepts that school is going to be non negotiable, the day turns out to be not so bad. They start with school supplies, and William has fun running to find every new item Rebecca reds off her list. Sometimes she sends him back for something slightly different, but sometimes she lets him keep what he has even if the list says no- the folder with the cartoon dinosaurs on it instead of plain colors is okay, but the giant box of crayons with the sharpener in the back is not.

Then they switch stores, and spend an hour or so looking for things to make William's room look a little less bland. Rebecca warns him that they don't have a lot of money to spend, but they find a bright green rug that squishes between William's toes when he pulls off his shoes to try it out, and a bedspread with purple aliens that clashes horribly with the rug. The last thing they buy is a string of lights in funny geometric shapes to hang on the wall.

"Strange collections of stuff you have here," Rebecca says, eyeing their purchases warily. "Are you sure you don't want it all to match more?"

William shakes his head. "I don't know what I like yet," he explains. "I only have a few months of memory, so I need to try everything to find out if I like it."

For a second it almost looks like Rebecca is going to feel sorry for him, and William groans inside the privacy of his head. He's so tired of everyone feeling sorry for him- today, he just wants to forget about all the weirdness and be normal for a little while. It has been working until just now, and William gets ready to argue until Rebecca suddenly grins. "I know something you need to try, then," she says. "Somewhere I know you've never been, and I guarantee you'll like it a lot." And she says absolutely nothing else as they finish checking out and loading up the car, no matter how much William begs.

-/-

Rebecca is right. They get to the ice cream parlour and William falls in love at once. He tells Rebecca he wants a cone, but she orders him a sundae anyway. Then she helps him eat it. By the time they reach the bottom of the bowl, WIliam's whole face and both hands are sticky, along with most of the table. He laughs as Rebecca runs a wet napkin over his hand and across his face- she retaliates by tossing it right at his face, where it sticks.

"Hey!"

But he's not really upset, he's happy even, and he's still smiling when he pulls the dirty napkin away from his eyes. "I want to remember this forever," he tells her.

"Sure," she shrugs. "Or we can just do it again sometime."

He gapes. "We can do this again?"

She laughs and messes his hair. "Come on," she says. "One more stop."

Again, she won't tell him what's going on even when he asks and asks and asks. They get back in the car and drive for several minutes before stopping in front of an electronics store. William frowns, expecting some boring computer stuff. "Why are we here?"

"You're getting a cell phone," she explains. "You need to go to school, but you also need a way to get in touch with us if something goes wrong, or someone finds you while you're away from home."

"Like who, exactly?" William asks. He knows there's someone chasing them, but he doesn't understand who or why. The most he's gotten so far is a 'we'll tell you when you're older', which doesn't help much.

"Bad guys," Rebecca says, which helps even less. He groans, and she gives him a look that's much more serious than he's used to getting from her. "It's just complicated," she says. "And this isn't the right time to explain."

They get out of the car and head inside, only making it a few feet past the door before a man with a bright shirt stops Rebecca and starts on a breathless rant about sales and new products and William doesn't know what else. She stops him before he can get too far, pointing down at William. "I just need a cheap phone for him."

"Oh," the man says, clearly disapproving. "How old is he?"

"Eight."

"Don't you think your son is a little young for a cell phone, ma'am?" the man asks, in a voice that says he clearly does.

The conversation grinds to a halt for a moment as William and Rebecca both take in the monumental mistake the man has made in their relationship. Then Rebecca, in a strained voice, says, "I think that is definitely my business, not yours."

The salesman backs down, and quickly enough he and Rebecca have agreed on a cheap model. After paying, Rebecca pulls the top off the box and passes the phone down to William. He studies it in silence as they head back outside.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. But emergencies only, okay?"

"Okay." He turns the phone over a few more times before flipping it open and slowly reading through the menus. Halfway through the list, he looks excitedly up at Rebecca. "There's a camera?"

She laughs. "Yes. And that you can use."

"Really?"

"Really."

He takes pictures of everything on the way home, mostly blurry snapshots of the road outside his window. The phone camera is nowhere near as good as the one he'd gotten from Desmond, the one that is nothing but broken shards of plastic now, but it's good enough. When they get back, he helps Rebecca unload his stuff, and then when everything is stored in his room, William runs next door to Desmond's.

The baby is asleep, and William knows better than to wake him up in the middle of a nap. So he turns the flash off and stands on his toes to reach over the top of the crib. It's not a comfortable position, but it's enough.

Later, William flips through the pictures, studying each one individually and deciding they're perfect. He curls up on his bed, on top of the brand new bedspread with the funny purple aliens, and realizes that he's missed taking pictures.

**-/-**

**Longer than average chapter, because there's a reviewer that keeps asking for teddy bears and it seemed like too good an idea to pass up. So I had to go back in and add one. xD**


	12. (Part 2)Building Family

Rupert Fucking Westing-Smithe (his middle name is Fredrick, but the appellation fits him, and sticks) has a very annoying smile, especially when he's feeling smug, which is often. Shaun very nearly stabs him when he opens the door one August morning to find Rupert Fucking Westing-Smithe and his stupid, arrogant smile just outside.

He manages to stop short of actual violence, although it is an effort. "What do you want?"

"Delivery," Westing-Smithe says, and he hands Shaun a crisp sheet of paper with NOTICE OF VIOLATION stamped across the top in dark, bold letters. "Read it and weep, asswipe."

"You are an unpleasant person," Shaun says, scanning the paper.

"And you're breaking the law!"

"Violating an ordinance, technically," Shaun says as he finishes reading. "Why are you even delivering this?" He keeps his voice calm, but the words on the page have him worried. They've tried to anticipate every possible way Westing-Smithe could get at them, but no one had thought to check the goddamn zoning code. Because really, who would?

"It should have come in the mail, but I volunteered." Westing-Smithe looks like he wants to gloat more, but Shaun shuts the door in his face before he has a chance. He wants to slam it, but knows that's exactly the reaction the other man is looking for, and is determined to deny him this satisfaction at least.

It's still early- Shaun is privately convinced that Westing-Smithe never sleeps- so Shaun is the only one in the house awake. He slams the notice down on the battered dining room table (stained by both food and dried blood, marred by scratches from a veritable armory of weapons), opens his laptop, and starts to research.

He starts with zoning codes. Like most places, the small suburban village where they have been staying has a zoning code. This code dictates every detail of what can be constructed where, how many floors a building can have how far it has to be from the street, what it can be used for- almost literally everything.

Shaun has a headache by the time he finally figures out exactly which part of this monster code they've violated. As far as he can tell, the issue is that their house is zoned 'single family residential', meaning there's one house on the lot, and one family allowed in that house. Simple enough, except that the village has also defines what constitutes a family.

(a) One group of people, directly related to each other through blood, marriage, or adoption, living together as one housekeeping unit along with a number of guests not to exceed the number of direct relations OR (b) no more than five unrelated people living as one cohesive housekeeping unit

None of them (apart from William and Desmond, a confusing exception) is related, and there are eight of them rather than five. Technically, Westing-Smithe has every right to call them out on it. Still, he must have hung around and watched the house for ages to figure out how many there are.

"You look stressed," Rebecca says, and Shaun jumps- he hadn't heard her come down.

"Yea," he admits. "Yea, well… we're apparently going to get kicked out of the house for having too many people living here." He shows her the notice, and briefly explains Westing-Smithe and his research.

"Shit," Rebecca says. "Can we argue this? I really don't want to get kicked out of here- we really can't afford to lose another safehouse."

"Maybe?" Shaun shrugs. "I don't know how. There really are eight of us here. And I mean, we could get a few people to clear out for a month or so, but eventually they'll come back and Rupert Fucking Westing-Smithe will just complain again."

They spend a while trading ideas back and forth without coming to any solid conclusions. Slowly, the rest of the household starts waking up. A few of them wander over to see what's going on, and Shaun can't help considering each of them as they pass by.

In the kitchen, eighty year old Samuel sings off key and loud as he cooks (burns, really) bacon. Two of the younger assassins- twenty year old Brianna and twenty two year old Kevin- laugh and sling good natured insults at his bacon. When he offers to share, however, neither of them turn him down. William comes downstairs, hair sticking up at strange angles, eyes still half closed and crusty from sleep. He carries Desmond in both arms, who looks wide awake and- going by the familiar glint in his eyes- obviously hungry. The last member of their household, a thirty something woman called Laurel, is the only one that seems at all interested in what they're actually talking about. She sits down, listens in silence for a few moments, and then straight up laughs at them.

"What?" Shaun demands, looking up at her and scowling. "Would you like to share with the rest of the class?"

"Look," Laurel says, pushing a loose strand of hair away from her face with obvious impatience. "There's eight of us here. That thing says one actual family, and the same number of people that aren't related. So if we convince them at least four of us are family, there's no problem anymore."

"But we don't have four people that are- what?" He cuts himself off, not quite liking the way she looks at him.

Laurel only smiles, resting her chin on the palm of one hand, and gesturing with the other between Shaun and Rebecca, then over toward William and Desmond. "Come on," she says. "It's obvious."

"You're kidding," Shaun says. "No." He crosses his arms over his chest and leans back as far as possible, as if the sheer stupidity of the suggestion is physically too much to stand.

"Shaun-" It's not Laurel that speaks, but Rebecca. He glances sideways and frowns at the hurt expression on her face when she looks at him. Why should she be upset by his reaction? Surely she should be as upset by Laurel as he is.

"It's just ridiculous!" He protests. "We would never-"

Rebecca stands sharply, and leaves without another word. Shaun looks after her, then back at Laurel. "What just happened? He demands. "I don't understand. What did I say?"

Brianna comes in from the kitchen, a plate of rancid bacon in one hand. She gives Shaun a good natured slap on the shoulder. "Idiot."

"What?"

But no one will explain. They just shake their heads like he's the thickest man in the world.

-/-

"Rebecca's mad at you."

Shaun looks up at William, hovering unhappily in the room's doorway. He has a habit of waiting to be invited into places before coming inside, almost like he's expecting to be told off for being too bold. Shaun nods tiredly at him, and William creeps inside to perch uneasily on the bed Shaun and Rebecca have shared since coming to the safehouse. "She's sad, too."

"I know," Shaun says. "It's complicated."

"How is it complicated?" William stares at Shaun in obvious bewilderment. "You said you don't like her, why wouldn't she be upset?"

"It's not that I don't like her," Shaun says. "It's just… complicated."

"But you like her like her," William says, as if stating a simple fact. "You're always nice to her, even when you're mean to other people. And you look at her different. And sometimes, when you're sleeping, you hold her hand."

"I don't do that!"

"You do!" William laughs at the expression of shock on Shaun's face. "Why do you sleep in the same be if you don't want to be close by?"

"Because…" it's just easier, after everything that's happened, not to be alone at night. And because Rebecca understands what nobody else does. She'd been there on the day the world was supposed to have ended. She… she really is special.

"William," Whaun says, with a new urgency. "We need to talk about something."

"Am I in trouble?"

"Not at all. But… there's kind of a problem. One of our neighbors has been giving us some trouble lately."

"Rubert Fucking Westing-Smithe?"

Shaun winces. Apparently they have not been as careful as they should have been about their language. "Um-"

"Is Fucking his middle name?"

"No, not exactly. I'll explain later. But- yea, he's giving us some problems. Just silly things."

"You hell at him a lot."

"Yes, I know."

"You called him a-"

"William, you are not to repeat anything you hear us call him to anyone else, alright?" He takes a deep breath. "Anyway, he's done some clever legal things, and the only way out of it we've been able to find is for you, me, Rebecca, and Desmond to pretend we're a family."

"Oh!" William looks up at him, beaming for no reason Shaun can see. Then he gets a good look at Shaun's face and the smile fades. "Is that bad?"

"It's-" Honestly, he doesn't know what it is. But he's not cut out to be a father, not even a pretend one. While he's not as bad as William had been to Desmond, he still has no idea what he' supposed to do. He'd more or less abandoned William, neglecting him to the point where he'd come very close to killing himself. It should have been Desmond to raise him, because Desmond knew what William is struggling with, and exactly what to say and do to help.

But that Desmond, the one that had known what to do, who had been strong enough to survive months in the anius, who had managed to forgive William when he had no reason to do so, is gone. And Shaun has no more idea of how to treat the child that has replaced him than he has of what to do with William. And Rebecca… How is he supposed to ever figure out how he feels about her if he has to spend all his time pretending to love her? Anything he says or does will be seen as just part of the facade, rather than his real feelings. By marrying her, ironically, he will most likely lose her.

"I think it's good," William says, cautiously. "It could be kind of like…" but he trails off, apparently unable to finish the thought.

"Like what?"

"Like… nothing. Never mind."

"William-"

The boy balls up his fists and suddenly glares at Shaun. "You don't want any of us?" he demands. "Is that why you don't like this idea? Are you-" he puts a hand up, grabbing a fistful of hair and blocking his face in a single, frustrated motion. His next words are muffled. "Everyone always leaves! Desmond and Katherine and you-"

"William, no…" Shaun gingerly sits down at his side, and pulls William's arms away from his face. The boy resists until Shaun moves closer to allow him to lean against his side. Then, slowly, he allows Shaun to draw him in closer. "I'm not leaving, I promise."

"But you don't want to be family."

"There is a large gap between abandonment and adoption, William." He sighs. "And I'm not the best choice for this. We both know it."

"But there's no one else," William protests, and his thin fingers wrap tightly around Shaun's upper arm.

"All I do is make mistakes."

"I don't care," William insists. "You're the only one here."

"Fine." Shaun takes a deep breath. "I can go talk to Rebecca."

"Really?"

"Just talk," Shaun emphasizes. "I don't know what she'll say."

"I do," William says, with the earnest conviction that only the very young or purposefully stupid can manage. "She's gonna say yes."

-/-

Rebecca is in the basement, hard at work. For her, this means she's hunched over a computer with monster headphones clamped over her ears, intent on making whatever problem she's facing disappear. Shaun stops in the doorway and watches her in silence until she catches his reflection in her monitor and turns to look at him.

"Hey," she says, pulling her headphones off. A blast of music escapes, and then she remembers to pause whatever she's listening to. "Sorry."

"I need to talk to you," Shaun says. "About what Laurel said at breakfast."

"Really?" She crosses her arms and glares at him. "You made it pretty clear how you felt this morning. I already know you're not interested. In her plan. Or me."

"I am," he says. "That's exactly the problem. I don't want to start pretending we're…" he takes a deep breath. "I didn't want you to think it's all some kind of sick joke, because I really like you, Rebecca."

She nods. "Obviously."

"You- what do you mean 'obviously'?"

"Sorry, was that supposed to be some big secret? Shaun- I've been waiting for you to say something for months. The only reason Laurel even suggested this plan in the first place is because you're so horrifyingly obvious!"

He becomes aware that his mouth is hanging open. Closes it again. "Oh."

"I'm willing to give you and me a chance," Rebecca says. "Unless you want to go back to me pretending I don't know exactly what you're thinking-"

"No," Shaun interrupts. "Let's not do that."

"Good," Rebecca says. She's smiling at him, the same carelessly confident smile that had made him notice her in the first place, long before he'd ever joined the assassins. "So I'm thinking, how about we start backwards? Get married first, find a couple kids, and then see where it goes from there."

"Yea," Shaun says. It's about all he can manage at the moment, and his usual stock of sarcastic comments seems to have abandoned him. "Sounds good. I just- really, I can't believe this is serious. You're not kidding?"

"You're so stupid sometimes," she tells him.

Later, after they've talked, the two of them, William, and Desmond sit around the dining room table and figure out what has to happen next. Desmond sleeps through most of the meeting, and William mostly just watches with wide eyes while Shaun and Rebecca throw legal terms around. Then they talk about the future.

In some ways, not very much is likely to change. The four of them have been joined by their shared experiences in the temple and then afterwards, on the run. Some added legalities won't make that much different. But in other terms, absolutely everything will be different.

This is Shaun and Rebecca taking responsibility for William and Desmond. This is them making a promise not to leave. Not to give up, even when things get complicated. As they surely will, in this group. They are, after all, something like a family now. And family does not abandon one another.

Besides- it's going to be fun seeing Westing-Smithe's reaction when they outsmart him.

**-/-**

**So there's still one chapter of part 2 left, but I want to see if people will be interested in part 3. I'm trying to keep each part self contained so I can stop when people get bored. So! Review and let me know either way. Part 3 would most likely cover the events of Black Flag, and introduce a few other people who may have had run ins with apples.**

**I wasn't planning to ask until next chapter, but I need to decide if I'm ending part 2 on a cliffhanger. *evil laugh*. Obviously if I'm not going to keep going, no cliffhangers. Also, sorry for the zoning shit. That's the kind of stuff I study, and you know... midterms...**


	13. (Part 2)A New Friend

"Do I have to take the bus?"

"Yes." Rebecca laughs and hands him his backpack. "It's your first day in school, go make new friends. You don't want to hang out with us."

"I do! I can make new friends in class, I want you and Shaun to take me!" He doesn't want to go at all, actually, but it has been made very clear to him that he doesn't have a choice in the matter.

"Go," Rebecca says.

"Can I say bye to Desmond first?"

"You're trying to waste time so you miss the bus," Shaun calls from the other side of the room.

It's true, but William doesn't want to admit it. "I just wanna say bye!"

"Real quick," Rebecca says, and William crosses the room to where Desmond is set up on a blanket, surrounded by toys but more interested in his toes. William hugs him, leaning down to whisper in his ear. "You are so lucky you don't have to go to school." Desmond laughs and smiles at him. Reluctantly, knowing he's not going to be allowed to accidentally miss the bus, William pulls away.

He has his backpack slung over his shoulders, a lunchbox in one hand, and a plastic bag of extra first day of school supplies in the other. In the doorway, Rebecca catches him by the shoulder and pulls him into a tight hug. "Good luck," she says. "You're going to do great."

He resists when she tries moving away- William still isn't entirely used to things like this, treating every one like it might be the last. Eventually, though, he finds himself outside and blinking in the late August sun, facing the unavoidable prospect of his first ever day of school. He takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and crosses the street to the bus stop.

It's been set just across the street (which is convenient) in Westing-Smithe's driveway (which is not). Half a dozen kids are already gathered there, boys and girls ranging from a few years younger than William (babies) to a few years older (practically ancient). A few parents hover nearby, watching their children for the slightest signs of misbehavior. William takes a little bit of encouragement from the fact that at least he doesn't need to be supervised that closely.

"First day of school?"

William recognizes Westing-Smithe's voice, and looks up to see the man has come outside, carrying a bulging white trash bag to the curb for pickup. He's looking right at William, an incredibly fake, toothy smile pasted over his face.

"Yes."

"Last day, too," Westing-Smithe says casually. "The zoning commission meeting is tonight."

"So?" William says. "We're not breaking any laws."

"There are eight of you living in that house," Westing-Smithe explains, in the slow and tortorous voice some adults reserve for little kids. It's annoying. "That's illegal."

"It's me, my brother, our mom and dad, and four friends." The claim doesn't sit quite right on his tongue, but he's starting to get used to the lie. And anyway, it's funny to see Westing-Smithe's eyes bug out and his mouth drop open.

"You're related?" he demands.

"Adopted."

"But- no! What?"

The bus pulls up in front of the driveway, brakes squealing wildly, and William turns to follow the other kids on board. He picks a spot by the window, one where he can watch Westing-Smithe fade away behind them. It's very satisfying.

A few blocks away, the bus stops again, and another crowd of shouting kids come running up the stairs and through the aisle between the seats. The bus is far more crowded by now, and one girl smiles at William as she slips into the seat next to him. "Sorry," she says. "Can I sit here?"

"Sure," he says, and the girl smiles again. It's a little smile, shy and nervous, and the rest of her face is hidden by long, blonde hair. She wears a white T-shirt with a bright red flower blooming across her stomach like a spreading stain, and a knee length skirt almost hiding her thin, pale legs. She kicks her sandalled feet absentmindedly against the seat in front of her until the boy sitting in it shouts at her to stop.

"It's my first day at this school," she tells William, as if to explain her nervous fidgeting.

"Mine too."

"Really?" her eyes grow wide. "Good. I was so scared I'd be the only one. What grade are you in?"

"Third."

Her face lights up. "Me too. Do you think we'll be in the same class?"

"Maybe."

"I hope so. I want a friend in my class."

William rubs one hand nervously over the bandages still wrapped around the other. Most of his injuries have healed by now, but the hand he'd gripped the camera shard with will take a while longer, and most likely leave scars. "Are we friends?" he asks.

"We could be, if you want."

He kind of does- Desmond is the only person he knows younger than twenty, and while William loves him a lot, he's not much of a conversationalist yet. "Sure," he blurts, hoping he won't sound too eager. "That would be good."

"Good!"

"Yea."

"So…" She pokes him in the side. "What's your name? If we're going to be friends."

"Oh! William." He's registered for classes under a false last name, but he's been allowed to keep his first name just to keep from slipping up and giving them all away. Still, the change of his last name is kind of annoying, especially since William still has no idea who or what they're hiding from.

"Hi, William." There's a sharp light in her eyes as she says the name, one he hasn't noticed before. "My name's Lucy."

"Lucy," he repeats, holding out his hand to her with mock seriousness. She shakes it and laughs. "I look forward to being your friend."

**-/-**

**No promises about when part 3 will go up. I only have about two hundred words written so far. But it will definitely be up at some point.**


	14. (Part 3)Peacocks

The first time William is called into the principal's office, it's the middle of October, a Wednesday, just after recess, and his hair is blue.

He sits in a too large chair on one side of the principal's ancient, wooden desk, barely daring to breathe, terrified of whatever punishment the principal is going to decide to dish out. "William," she says, her voice gentle. "Do you want to explain what happened today?"

"No," He says, in a voice so quiet he can barely hear it himself. He slides down a little in the chair.

"Sit up, please." She waits until he has grudgingly complied before asking her next question. "Why is your hair blue?"

Because they've been learning about peacocks in class, and how the boy peacocks are prettier than the girl peacocks, and Lucy had brought some spray on hair dye to try it out on William. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, crouched on the ground behind a bush at the edge of the playground, giggling over a can of blue hair spray. But now his hair is drying into hard, sticky spikes, and this stern looking adult i frowning down at him, and he is gonna be in _so much trouble._ "Dunno," he whispers.

"It just turned blue all by itself? Like magic?"

He's a sixty year old man with his memories stolen, turned into an eight year old boy. Magic blue hair seems perfectly logical. Still, William knows better than to say any of that to anyone outside his family, so he stays silent.

"William, was there someone else with you?"

"No." He's already been caught- he's the one with blue all over his hair- but that doesn't mean he's going to sell Lucy out as well.

"Then I'm going to have to give you a detention," the principal says. "Come back here at the end of the day. And I will be calling your parents."

He nods instead of saying anything, and keeps his head down so she won't notice there's tears in his eyes. Shaun and Rebecca are going to be really, really mad at him. The principal dismisses him, and William shuffles away from the desk and into the hallway. Halfway back to class, Lucy comes out of nowhere, grabs him by the wrist and drags him toward the nearest bathroom.

"Hey!"

"Where did you even come from?"

"I've been waiting for you," she says. Her eye are wide and worried. "Did you tell her it was my fault?"

"This is the _girl's _bathroom-"

"William! Focus!"

"No, of course I didn't tell."

She sags visibly in relief. "My dad would kill me if he found out."

William nods, because he's well acquainted with how cruel fathers can be. He's been on both sides of that. "Is your dad mean?"

She waits a long moment, then nods. "Kind of."

"Things can still get better," he says. "Don't worry."

"Yea," she says. "Sure."

"But, um… this is still the girl's bathroom."

She laughs at him, and takes his hand to lead him back to class.

Their teacher gives WIlliam a disapproving look, but says nothing. He barely notices, though, because the rest of the class seems completely impressed by his new hair color. It doesn't quite make up for the detention, but it's pretty close.

At least, it is until Shaun shows up after detention that afternoon to drive him home.

William is waiting on the curb in front of the main doors when the dark van pulls up. He can just make out Shaun's profile through the window, and frowns. If any of the other assassins had been sent to get him, he wouldn't have been so worried. But he knows that Shaun and Rebecca are in charge of him now, so either of them showing up now means he's really, definitely in trouble. For sure.

He climbs into the back seat, puts his backpack on the ground, and puts on his seatbelt without catching Shaun's eye. Then he folds his hands in his lap, and sits as still as possible, considering how bad he's shaking.

Finally, when nothing happens, William dares to look up at Shaun. And then he frowns. "What?"

The man is hunched over the steering wheel, one hand pressed to his face. His shoulders shake wildly, and it takes William a moment to realize that for some reason, he's laughing. He's never seen Shaun laugh like that. "What's so funny?"

"How did you manage to get your hair blue?" Shaun eventually forces out, around his desperate laughter.

"I…" he blinks at Shaun in confusion. "My friend brought hair spray. We wanted to be peacocks."

This results in a fresh burst of laughter, and William feels his stomach flip. He might not actually be in trouble. "Are you mad?"

Shaun calms, and turns around to look at William. "I should probably be at least a little upset," he admitted. "But your hair just looks- well, it looks exactly like a peacock."

William cracks a reluctant smile. "Thank you."

"But you do understand that you broke school rules, right?"

"Yes…"

"Still. You've already had detention, so I guess as long as you're not going to do it again, we can wash out the dye and say no more about it."

William breathes a sigh of relief and lets himself relax. "Thank you. I don't- I keep expecting…"

Shaun's eyes go soft, and he nods before turning around. "Of course, William." He starts the car, putting it into drive. "And in the future, if you're going to break rules, pick better ones."

"You're not going to tell me to just… stop breaking rules?"

"It'd be a little hypocritical of me," Shaun says. "We're assassins. We do nothing but break rules. It's okay when it's for something really important."

Assassins. This is far from the first time William has heard the word, but he still doesn't know exactly what it means. "So.." he remembers watching Desmond in the animus, and makes a guess. "You kill people?"

For a minute, he almost doesn't expect Shaun to answer. But the man doesn't avoid the subject like everyone else does, and eventually the explanation starts coming out.

William has a feeling that a lot of what he hears is being simplified and cleaned up for him to better understand, but it's still more information than he's been able to get so far. He listens as intently as possible, drinking in the information with eager anticipation. He learns about the ancient war between the assassins and templars. Abstergo, the animus, _everything_. He appreciates the truth, even if it is a little scary. It's hard to think that he's been drawn into all this without noticing, or that he'd really been part of this war when he was older. "So this is dangerous?"

"Very."

"Should I be scared?"

Again, Shaun doesn't lie. "If you're smart, you should be. But not _too _scared. We're all here to keep you safe. Besides, fear is as likely to get you hurt as anything else. If you understand the risks, and know what to do when something bad happens, that's the best defense you can hope for."

"But I _don't _know any of that stuff!"

"Not yet," Shaun says. "But you can learn, if you want. We've been talking about this for a while lessons from us will keep you safer than if you didn't."

He wants to be safe, but he also wants to stay with the people that are sort of starting to be his family. "I want to learn, I guess," he says, and Shaun nods like he already knows.

"Then you'll start this weekend," he says.

"Is it going to be hard?"

"We'll keep it at your level."

"Okay." He's happy enough with that, and stays silent for a while. Then he speaks up again. "You were already talking about this? Why?"

"Because…" Shaun sighs. "Rebecca and I are going undercover at Abstergo. We started this morning, and it's not _extremely _dangerous- we're just gathering information- but there's still a chance we'll end up attracting some attention we don't want. And if that happens… you need to know something about keeping yourself safe."

They pull into the driveway, and William waits until they're out of the car and walking side by side before saying anything else. "Will you and Rebecca be okay undercover?"

"Oh yea," Shaun says. He sounds absolutely confident. "We're tough. We'll be fine."

"You better be," William whispers.

-/-

As usual when he's nervous or upset, William goes to Desmond for comfort. He likes Shaun and rebecca, but he can't quite bring himself to go to either of them for something like this. Not yet, anyway. That would mean admitting that they are something like parents to him. He can pretend to other people that they're related, but it's harder to convince himself. Better to go to Desmond instead.

The baby is growing clingy. He cries when he's alone, and lights up with smiles when familiar faces come close. He's always happy with William, _always_, and William can't help being happy with him, too. Today, he pulls Desmond onto his lap and hugs him close. "So," he says. "I had a busy day today." And goes on to explain everything that happened. It's not like Desmond will understand, but it helps to explain, and to see Desmond love him anyway.

"I think… I think I'm probably scared," William admits, while Desmond suddenly seems to notice that his hair is a funny color. He grabs at it with an expression of mingled awe and curiosity on his face. William mutters at him to stop it, but Desmond completely ignores him. For some reason, it makes William crack a smile.

There's a loud crashing noise from somewhere downstairs, followed by Samuel's cheerful cursing, which announces to William that inner is almost ready. He stands, pulling Desmond up with him, and hurries down to the table.

Dinner, in this house, is always something of an adventure, with eight of them there. It's crowded and noisy, the table straining under the weight of enough food to keep all of them fed, chairs crowded so tightly together they nearly merge into one massive whole. It's the only meal of the day that everyone can (usually) sit down together and eat. Today is no different than any other day, although William does get several comments on his hair.

Other than that, the meal is mostly just loud, with five different conversations going on at any one time, people reaching over and around each other, and then finally the traditional scramble to leave the table as quickly as possible to avoid dishwashing duty. William, as usual, is set to drying dishes with Rebecca. Some of the others have places to go (assassins mostly work at night), so they finish their work and quickly leave. William has learned not to ask where exactly they're going, and after his conversation with Shaun earlier, he decides he definitely doesn't want to know.

"Hey, William," Rebecca says as they finish the last few dishes. "Starting tomorrow, Shaun and I are going to still be at Abstergo when you get back from school."

"But…" usually, they're the only two there waiting for him after class. "Who's going to be here, then?"

"Samuel will stay a little bit later, so Desmond isn't alone. Then he'll leave, and you'll have to take care of Desmond until Shaun and I get back. Do you think you can handle that?"

"No," he says, because he's just barely gotten over thinking he'll spontaneously set Desmond on fire if they're left alone in the same room. There's no way he can take care of Desmond all by himself.

"William…" She kneels down in front of him, eyes serious. "Shaun told you what we're doing here, right?"

"Assassin stuff," he says glumly.

"Very _important _assassin stuff," she specifies. "And it means we'll be getting home a little later from now on. All you have to do is watch Desmond for a while between when Samuel leaves and we get home. I _know _you can do that."

"What if something bad happens?"

"Call us. Or 911, if something goes really wrong."

"You…" He starts to realize that she's serious. "You actually trust me with this?"

"Yes," she says definitely, and William feels himself start to smile before he consciously realizes how happy her confidence in him makes him feel. She sees the smile and hugs him tight. "I'm proud of you."

"Thank you," he whispers, hugging her back.

"There are rules, of course," she says. "Since you're going to be home alone." And then she gives him a list of things he's supposed to do and things he's absolutely not allowed to do under any circumstances.

"And no friends," Rebecca says, as she wraps up her list.

"Why can't I have friends?" William demands. "I have friends at school!"

"Oh! No, I'm not saying you can't have friends. You just can't bring them over while everyone's out."

He shrugs. "Okay."

"Yea?" She tickles him a little, so that he shrieks and curls up protectively. "You sure?"

"I'm sure! I'm sure!" Besides- his only real friend is Lucy, and she's never wanted to come over before. Nothing is going to go wrong.

**-/-**

**I'm not done with Part 3 yet. I'm maybe... halfway through? So there aren't going to be any more chapters for a while, but I wanted to get something posted because it's been over a month since I last updated and I feel bad. The rest will probably come out sometime in May(?) after school ends.**


	15. (Part 3)Growing Up

Lucy isn't at school the next morning. She shows up just after lunch, face red from crying, lip fat and bloody, and a spreading purple bruise across one side of her face. William is horrified at the sight, and moves across the room to sit next to her when their teacher isn't looking."What happened?" he asks, quietly enough that no one else can hear.

"Nothing." She hunches forward a little, so that her hair swings forward to hide her face. When she crosses her arms over her chest, William sees bruises there as well. Big, fat, ugly bruises, from where someone has grabbed her and not let go. It's pretty obvious that whatever happened to her, it's not nothing.

"Was it your dad?" He's always thought she seems a little scared of him.

Her eyes flick up for a moment, and then very quickly back down. She doesn't say anything, but the look on her face is answer enough. He's been there before, after all. On both sides. "He shouldn't do that to you."

"I didn't say-"

"You didn't have to. We're friends, aren't we?"

She looks up at him with something like complete shock. Her whole face just goes blank and she stares like she's never seen anything like him before.

"What?" he asks, smile slipping off his face. He'd thought they were, but it's not something they've ever actually talked about. "Did I say something wrong?"

"You really don't-" She stops speaking, as if she's suddenly run into a brick wall. She starts over, this time allowing herself to smile. "Yea. We're friends."

"I really am sorry about what your dad did."

"Yea," she sighs. "Me too. Listen, William… can I come home with you after school today? Just for an hour or so."

"My… parents are working late," he says, shaking his head reluctantly. "I'm not supposed to have friends over while they're gone."

"Please?" she asks. "I don't want to come home and face my dad right away."

And this is probably the only argument that would have worked on him just then. But Lucy doesn't deserve to go right back home after school and get beaten again.

"Okay."

She leans over and wraps him up in a tight, bony hug, all elbows going everywhere. "Thank you!"

"Hey!" he pushes her (gently) away, looking around to check if anyone saw. Boys and girls aren't supposed to hug. It's _gross_. A group of boys at the back of the room start laughing loudly and William feels his ears go red.

"Sorry," Lucy says. "And I swear, I'll be gone before your parents get back. They'll think you were home alone all afternoon."

"Well. Sort of alone. My brother will be there too."

"Brother! You have a _brother_?"

"Yea." He grins into her surprised face, because he could literally talk about Desmond for hours. "Haven't I mentioned him before?"

"No. Older, or younger?"

"Younger."

"Does he go here, too?"

"No. He's not even a year old yet."

"Oh… what's his name?"

"Desmond."

Before either of them can say anything else, their teacher decides he's had enough of them whispering during his lesson, and sends them to opposite ends of the classroom.

William has no idea what they're supposed to be learning about for the rest of the day. His mind is fully occupied with the consequences of bringing Lucy home when he'd been _specifically _told not to. It's the second time he's done something definitely against the rules in two days. The blue in his hair hasn't even fully washed out yet. He should be terrified.

But weirdly enough, he feels better about his decision to bring her home the longer he spends thinking it over. After all, Shaun had just told him yesterday that rules should be broken when it's for something important. And he thinks this is important, and so that pretty much means he has permission. Maybe. Kind of.

...of course, it's still probably best that she'll be gone before anyone gets home. No one ever has to know.

They almost always ride the bus home together after school, but today instead of getting off at her stop, Lucy rides another four blocks and gets off with William. She looks around, taking in the street, and then back at him.

"Over there," he says, pointing at the house. "But… you need to wait a few minutes before going in. To make sure the house is empty."

"Sure," she says, and he hurries into the house alone. Samuel is waiting there, obviously running late for something and impatient to be off. In no time at all, he's handed Desmond over to William and gone. William takes a steadying breath, and goes to let Lucy inside.

She looks out of place in the kitchen, hovering around the doorway, eyes darting from place to place, taking in every detail. "Come on," William says. "It's safe here, I promise."

She looks frankly disbelieving, and only reluctantly comes farther into the kitchen. Her eyes fix on Desmond, and the baby starts to fuss as she comes closer. "So this is your brother?" Lucy asks.

"Yea," William says. He hovers a foot or so behind her, close enough that he can step in and intervene if anything goes wrong, but not quite sure what he would do anyway.

"How old is he, exactly?"

Technically, William has no idea how to answer that question, but Desmond had been turned into a baby (which he figures is _kind _of like being born) in late December of last year. It's October now. "Ten months," he says.

"He's… cute," Lucy says. "Can I hold him?"

"Only if you're _really _careful."

But no sooner has Lucy touched him than Desmond bursts into terrified sobs. His whole body arches away from her, and William feels his eyes go wide in response. As quickly as he can, he pulls Desmond away from Lucy and back toward himself. "Sorry," he says when Desmond's cries have faded to an unhappy whimpering. "He doesn't usually do that."

"It's okay."

It's not. She's upset by all this, he can tell. But he has no idea what to say. Eventually, Lucy speaks first.

"...can I use your bathroom?"

He nods and points to where it is, relaxing a little only when she's out of sight. "Sorry," he tells Desmond, mostly to make himself feel better because he knows the baby can't understand him anyway. But Desmond responds with a surprisingly expressive look of dislike, staring after Lucy even though she's long out of sight. William makes a face right back at him. "What's so bad about Lucy?"

He puts Desmond down and starts rooting through the kitchen for food. Distracted by this, it's almost twenty minutes before he realizes that Lucy hasn't yet come back. He glances toward the bathroom, and feels the hairs on the back of his neck start to stand on end. The door is open, and even from here he can tell that the room is empty.

As quietly as he can, William picks up Desmond (his mind is full of Rebecca's dire warnings of what can go wrong while he's alone, and he doesn't want to let Desmond out of his sight right now) and goes looking for Lucy. The house is big. It has to be , to hold all eight people that live there. It takes William a while to poke through every inch of the first and second floors, and only when he's done this does he go down to the basement.

Which is where he finds Lucy, sprawled out on the ground with a glowing orb of light clutched in one hand. William stops dead at the bottom of the stairs, a cold feeling of dread curling in the pit of his stomach. He knows what the apple is, sort of. People talk about it like some killer magic wand with a mind of his own, and he knows it's responsible for turning him into a child and stealing his memories in the first place. In his earliest memories, the thing is there, a threat even when he doesn't understand what it can do.

He doesn't like it, and every instinct he has tells him to leave as quickly as physically possible. But… Lucy is down there, lying so completely still she might have been dead, and she's his friend. He has to help her, even though he doesn't want to, even though he doesn't know what she's doing with the apple in the first place.

He screws up his courage, and steps forward into the light. As soon as he does, something solid and painful slams into his brain. The world goes black, and he falls.

-/-

Some time later, he wakes.

His head feels ready to split in two, and his body feels too small to hold him. There is something (someone, _him_) trying to crawl inside his body and take over, and William does not want it to. Because it's not him, it's… the bigger, older, meaner version of him. The bad man he used to be before Desmond used the apple to make him little again. And he does not want to be that person. That man is a monster, and it's bad enough that William still sometimes has nightmares about him.

"Hey…"

His heart almost _stops_, and his eyes fly open because that's Desmond's voice. And sure enough, there's Desmond, sitting right in front of him like it's no big deal, big like he used to be before the temple and becoming a baby. "Desmond," William says. His voice is scratchy and weak against the pain of trying not to grow up.

"You have to let it happen," Desmond says.

"Noooo," he moans. "I don't want to!"

"Come on, dad," Desmond says softly. "We have to talk."

Dad. As far as William can remember- and he will admit that he still can't remember most of his life- Desmond has never called him that. _Never_. He doesn't deserve that title and it doesn't fit him. It does surprise him, though, enough that he loses focus, and stops fighting the change trying to creep through him, just for a second.

It's enough.

It hurts when his body starts to grow, like every limb is being held onto and pulled. Except that pulling doesn't begin to do justice to how much it actually hurts. And if his body hurts, the pain in his mind is even worse. He feels his brain getting older, memories pouring into his brain at a rate that's too fast to process. Each new thought and memory just slots neatly into place as _his _before he even has time to process them. But from what he sees, they're mostly bad memories, and horrifying thoughts that he can't help wanting to shy away from.

But… they're his.

And little by little, he can feel himself becoming the man he used to be, the monster he's been so afraid of ever since learning who he was (is). He breathes in, deeply, not yet confident enough to risk opening his eyes. He remembers. Everything he's done to Desmond, and every other mistake he's made in his too long and too unhappy life. In the simple, black and white terms of a child, he is the monster he's been so afraid of all this time.

But things are more complicated than that, because aren't they always? He doesn't _feel _like a monster. He feels like a man that's made mistake after mistake, a man that's spent most of his life drowning under the weight of everything he's done, struggling to keep his head above water just a little bit longer.

"Dad?" Desmond says again. He sounds scared, or worried, or… something, and that's what makes William finally open his eyes. Desmond leans over him, face miserable, eyes afraid. The sight of him starts up a flurry of emotions in William's chest- pounding fear, relief, disappointment, desperate love, and a sort of casual, ingrained derision just to name a few. William forces them all away, studying Desmond without any of those preconceptions, trying to see him as an equal for the first time in his life.

He remembers the day Desmond was born, and the awe of seeing something so innocent and just absolutely perfect coming into his life. Those had been the good days, before the pride in his son turned to disappointment and fear, because Desmond had grown up _soft _and _weak_, two unforgivable sins in the face of the growing templar threat. He remembers losing control over everything in his life, the simmering anger at the whole world that finds an outlet in Desmond because he can't touch the people he wants to hurt.

And at the same time, he remembers the fear in the first few weeks of his second childhood, when he'd been so convinced that Desmond was going to hurt him. And then the love that had slowly grown over the fear until it completely replaced it, persisting even after Desmond became a baby again.

His mind processes all this, struggling to figure out how he's supposed to respond. Then, because he can't come up with a better option, he reaches over (noticing and completely understanding Desmond's involuntary flinch) and hugs his son. "I love you."

Desmond raises his arms, carefully, like he's expecting this to turn out to be some elaborate trap, and finally returns the embrace. "Love you too, dad."

It seems the most important thing to say at the moment, but he has no idea what he's supposed to do now that it's been said. There is no possible right choice to make about what happens here, not with everything that's happened between them. Eventually, reluctantly, he pulls away and settles back against the wall. Desmond moves to sit next to him, a foot or so away, not touching but not pulling away either. Neither of them says a word, not for a very long while. Finally, Desmond breaks the silence.

"Can we talk?" he asks. "Please? I don't think I could stand if it we wasted all this time and never said anything."

"Where am I supposed to start?" William asks. His voice sounds foreign to his own ears after so long in a child's body. "I can't explain what I've done, I can barely even understand it myself. It started out so easy and then somewhere along the way I just lost the thread."

"That's not good enough," Desmond says. He sounds matter of fact rather than angry, just stating an indisputable fact. "You know how much you hurt me."

"I do. Because Desmond…" he takes a deep breath. "You did exactly the same thing to me. With the apple."

"And that makes… years of being afraid to say anything or do anything, or- or _think _anything… alright?"

"Nothing will make it alright," William says. "That's exactly what I'm saying. Or trying to say. Badly. Now I know how unforgivable everything I did was. I can't do anything but apologize, Desmond, and I am sorry. I really am."

"Then I forgive you," Desmond says. "And I'm sorry too. For the apple, and for everything else. So please stop blaming yourself." He grins feebly. "I've been wanting to say that for months, but I couldn't really say much of anything."

"You-" he does a double take. "What do you mean, _months_, Desmond?" Because Desmond has been a baby for nearly a year at this point, and William had thought he wouldn't have been thinking much of anything.

"I didn't forget, like you did after the apple. I… most of the time, it's just really hard to think. Like I can't keep track of what's going on, and everything is just moving too fast to keep track of, or too complicated to try and understand. But I did _notice_ how guilty you've been feeling."

And William can't do anything but sit there, totally unable to process what he's just heard. Desmond has been trapped inside his own head for nearly a year, and all of them had just assumed the old Desmond had vanished after the temple. But he's been there, the whole time. "I'm sorry. Was it..?"

"Terrifying, most of the time."

And he nods like he understands, like it's possible to understand without going there himself. But at the same time, he can't help thinking. If the old Desmond had really been there the whole time, then every time Desmond had reached out to _him_, when he'd refused to be comforted by anyone but _him_, when he'd smiled in that special, childishly enthusiastic way at _him_, it means more than William had ever expected.

But he doesn't say anything, because he is a grown man and grown men do not talk about their feelings. This grown man, in particular, does not know how, and part of him mourns the loss.

"I don't want to fight anymore," is all he says in the end. "I don't want you to hate me."

"I don't hate you," Desmond says, then considers this and adds, "Anymore. Do you-"

"No," William says, before Desmond can finish the question. "I don't hate you, either." And then, because Desmond had been honest first, he also adds, "Anymore."

"If you had to pick," Desmond says, "Between life before the apple and life after, what would you decide?"

"Come on, Desmond, that's not how it works." And if there's a note of impatience in his voice, well, that's hardly his fault. Desmond is offering him a choice that doesn't exist- the apple will do what the apple wants, regardless of their wishes.

"I know." He sighs, then says, "You know none of this is actually happening, right? The apple is better at illusion than actually changing things. This is happening in our heads."

"I-" his first instinct is to pretend he knew all about it, but he manages to fight down the instinct to pretend to be the smartest person in the room. Because honestly, until Desmond had suggested it, William hadn't noticed the creeping, surreal quality of the very air around them, or the way the light looks heavy and strange, and casts all the wrong shadows. It's difficult to notice, but impossible to unsee. "So is this real? Are we actually talking?"

He shrugs. "It feels real. I think it counts. And I want to know the answer to my question."

William takes a deep breath. "Then in that case… I think I like my life now better than before the apple. I'm… glad you did that." He offers a feeble smile. "Honestly I wish I had never remembered. I don't want to have to deal with that. When this is over, can I forget again? Or-"

"I think that ship has sailed," Desmond says, not unkindly.

"Still…" he doesn't want to remember. Every second that passes, the weight and burden of his memories seems to settle more heavily onto his shoulders. He had liked his time as a child. Even at the very beginning, when he'd thought Desmond had been some evil monster and he'd been afraid all the time… even those days had been better than living with the ghosts of his own horrible decisions. Unthinking, driven by some childish need that seems to have carried over from his younger self, he reaches out a groping hand for Desmond. Their fingers twine together. He turns, and to his surprise, catches Desmond scrubbing tears away from his face. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I just… really wanted to hurt you, with what I did with the apple. I wanted to hurt you and _I'm so sorry." _ He ducks his head and stares at the ground, drawing visibly into himself.

"Don't," William snaps. "Nothing bad that's happened is your fault."

"It is!"

He pulls Desmond close, holding him tightly, and the other man does not pull away. "Maybe you meant to hurt me, but you gave me a greater gift than I could have ever earned."

"What, being young?"

"You," William corrects. He realizes he's crying as well, but nothing he does will make that stop. "I fucked up so badly, Desmond. I was a terrible father, Desmond, and I could only ever have gotten you back through something as insane as what you did with the apple."

"Am I really worth all that, though..?"

"And more."

"So it's…" Desmond laughs, and even though it sounds defensive and nervous, half choked through tears. "It's over."

"You never have to be afraid of me again," William promises, understanding him at once.

"I'm so glad," Desmond sighs, and he looks it. Relaxed, suddenly, like the weight of the world has been dropped off his shoulders. And William wonders how long, exactly, Desmond has had to carry that weight. Years, obviously.

"I think…" and it does not sound so ridiculous as it should when he actually says it out loud. "I think I make a better brother than a father."

"That's not something I'm going to argue with." Desmond stands and turns. "Now I just have to deal with Lucy."

_Lucy_. At her name, William's two sets of memories (finally) match up, and he makes the connection. "Oh, God. She's supposed to be _dead_."

"Yea," Desmond says. "I would really like to know why she's not."

And so would William, honestly, but he has something else to ask before he loses the chance. "Desmond…"

"What?"

"You asked me if I was happier before or after the apple. What about you?"

He shrugs, unhappily. "I'll be honest. Spending all my time sleeping and pooping is not my favorite thing." And then he's gone, padding away on silent feet to deal with Lucy.

**-/-**

**So, turns out I lied. I promised Black Flag in part 3, but I got distracted with some other stuff. It'll happen in some future part, probably.**


	16. (Part 3)Meeting the Ex

**Chapter Three**

Lucy is still unconscious, still a child, still holding the apple in a sort of death grip when Desmond reaches her side. Quietly, gently, Desmond pries the apple from her hand and then just… watches her. Because he'd loved her, almost, and she'd betrayed him, and then… he'd killed her. There hasn't been much time to work out how he feels about all that since it happened, and he still doesn't know what to think now that Lucy is lying on the floor in front of him, tiny and innocent in her child body.

But she had used him, and he had been hurt by that. Now she's trying to use William for reasons Desmond can't even begin to guess, and he's absolutely determined that she doesn't succeed in getting whatever it is she wants. His gaze goes hard. "Come on," he says, nudging Lucy's still body with his toe. "Get up already."

Like William, her first reaction on waking is to curl into a tight ball and fight the change trying to crawl its way through her body. He spares a thought to wonder why- he can understand why William wouldn't want to grow up, when he has decades of bad memories waiting for him. But personally he'd relished the chance to get his adult body back, even if it was only for a little while, and had expected Lucy to feel the same way. It surprises him that she doesn't.

She whimpers quietly, and does not allow her self control to slip, does not allow the change to start until Desmond kicks her in the side a second time. When she has finally finished growing up again, she looks up at him with eyes that are wet with unshed tears and bright with some unreadable emotion.

"Are you going to kill me again?" she demands.

"Probably not. It didn't seem to have stuck the first time." It's hard to stand here and say these things to Lucy, whom he had liked and trusted right up until he learned she'd been a traitor all the time he'd known her.

"Well." Lucy stands, looking raw and new with her regained years. She examines her restored body with undeniable interest. "It almost did."

"Why didn't it?"

She laughs in his face. "I have no idea. But I _can _tell you that I'm not the only one back. Consider that piece of information a gift."

"What? Who?"

"Nobody important. It doesn't matter." But she smiles in a way that says it obviously does.

Desmond feels his blood start to boil, and some part of his mind is screaming at him to use the apple again. It had been very effective in changing his father, after all- the repentant man with the regret and horror in his eyes is not the same man Desmond had grown up fearing. He could change Lucy, too, make her a better person…

He restrains himself with difficulty. That would be a terrible decision, no matter how much he wants it at the moment.

"So." He looks down at the apple in his hand. "This is what you're here for, isn't it?"

"Obviously."

"You're not getting it."

"Also obvious. So what happens now?"

He frowns. It's… hard. Dealing with Lucy like this. She's so aggressive, almost in his face, and dismissive as if everything he says is unworthy of her time. "What do you _think _happens now?"

"I think that an hour ago, you were shitting your diapers and sucking your thumb. And an hour from now, you'll be doing the exact same thing. I don't know why you think you have any kind of power here at all."

"And you'll be a nine year old girl. How much power do you think _you_ have?"

She smiles again, and just the expression manages to imply that she has all sorts of plans, and that Desmond is too unworthy to learn anything about any of them. "I suppose we'll have to go back to normal and pretend that nothing happens."

"I can't let you do… whatever you're trying to do."

"How do you think you're going to stop it?"

"I…" Nothing.

"Exactly. You'll do nothing, and you'll tell no one. You're free to tell your assassin handlers about me whenever you want… or whenever you manage to get a basic grasp on the English language, I suppose. But I can tell the templars about you just as easily. You _and_ your father."

"Fine," Desmond mutters, and her smile widens when she sees he's realized he's beat.

"You too, William," Lucy calls. Her voice is laced with saccharine sweetness, highlighted by William's answering grunt of reluctant agreement from somewhere behind Desmond.

"Alright," Desmond says, trying to regain control over the conversation. "Then you-"

"Of course I won't tell anyone," Lucy scoffs, and Desmond believes her. If she says anything, she'll lose the only bargaining chip she has for their silence.

"Good."

"Yes. So what I think is-"

He punches her, hard, so that she reels back in mingled surprise and pain. "Desmond! What the-"

"You're a traitor and a terrible human being. You manipulated me. Worse, you manipulated my dad when he didn't know any better."

"Let him fight his own battles," she says, spitting out a mouthful of blood with the words.

"You-"

But this is the exact moment that the world begins to shiver, wobbling and compressing as the apple's illusion shatters into pieces. He's known all along that this isn't (can't be) real, but that doesn't make it any easier to be forced back into childhood. To feel every inch of himself being pushed down and compressed and buried.

It hurts. Tears spring to his eyes, unwanted but unavoidable, as he is pushed slowly to his knees. He opens his mouth to cry out, and hears a shrill, wailing scream instead. It's a very familiar sound by now, and he can't help the sobs that come next. The shrinking that follows hurts, but not as much as the feeling of his brain floating apart, or the thoughts in his head trickling away like water through dry dirt.

When it's over, he lies on the ground, upset and confused with his mind in are two people arguing close by, and he can hear their voices even if the meaning of their words swim away from him before he can grab onto them. He hears a slap, and then running footsteps. Lucy dashes past him (and he knows her face, knows she's _bad _but he can't exactly remember why). He's still crying, face screwed up and desperate sobs bursting out of him when a second person draws close.

This is a face he recognizes as well, and he knows the person it belongs to is safe. He reaches up, begging to be held, pleading with his eyes as a babble of useless noises pour from him. He feels skinny arms lifting him up, and a tired sigh. Desmond stops crying, slowly, of feeling of calm going through him because his daddy is here, he's going to make all the bad things go away, he's going to make everything better.

"Da…" And he wants to make the word mean so much more (I love you and I trust you and don't go please don't go), but this is all he can manage. "_Dada…!"_

"Desmond?" his daddy says, and he smiles at his name. There are more words after that, worried and questioning and urgent, but Desmond doesn't really understand beyond knowing his daddy is upset. And that upsets him too, so that the smile falls of his face and he almost squeaks in confusion.

And his daddy smiles a little, and holds him tighter, and so everything is okay. Desmond falls asleep not long after that. He feels very tired, weary in every inch of his bones. He is vaguely aware of being held and carried, bus since he's still in his daddy's arms, that's okay. He lets himself fall more deeply asleep, and for a while knows nothing but dreams.

-/-

William puts Desmond to bed and makes it downstairs to the kitchen before he starts crying. Lucy, his only friend in the whole world, has been lying to him from the day they met. This whole time, she's just been using him to get at the apple. That's so obvious now, and he hates himself for being so stupid.

And Desmond… William hadn't known that Desmond is still _in there_. He'd always assumed his old mind had been wiped when he'd gotten younger, just like William's had been. But seeing him today, knowing he was still there, trapped and suffering inside a body he couldn't control, that changes everything. At the end of it, when he'd watched Desmond fall back into infancy, and the intelligence drain from his face, that had been absolutely painful.

And he's the only one that knows how much Desmond hates what he has to be. The only one apart from Lucy, who doesn't care. And Desmond is just upstairs, sleeping and broken, just shattered into tiny pieces so he'll fit into the tiny little space that is left for him now.

He'd _spoken _to William, after he went back to being a baby. Not much, and William doesn't like that at some level Desmond is still thinking of him as _dad_. He doesn't deserve the title. But then, he's just happy that Desmond has the brain to think of him at all, even when everything else has been taken away from him.

William wipes his tears away. He can't do much, but he _will _help Desmond. The apple is just downstairs, and it's already proven very good at changing people's' ages. It can't be wrong to use it in this case. He just wants Desmond back. He wants to have real conversations with him, and see him happy and himself again.

The apple whispers things to him when he takes it from its usual place in the basement, promises of control and power that mean absolutely nothing for him. He doesn't care about any of that right now. All he wants is to help Desmond.

But at the door to Desmond's room, William stops, suddenly nervous. The apple is bad news. It does bad things. Can it even do something like this? Help someone?

There's only one way to find out. He steps forward, holds the apple out, and lets its power surge forth.

It's a powerful feeling, but jarring. The apple wants to _hurt_, to _break_, to _kill_. William has to fight it every step of the way to keep it on track and doing what he wants. It feels like he's at it for hours, only stopping when he can't keep the apple under control for any longer. It falls to the floor with a thump and William looks around, wide eyed and panting.

His first thought is that he's failed. Desmond is still too small, but when he looks a second time William sees that Desmond isn't really a baby anymore. Four or five, maybe. It's progress, but still not enough.

And then, as he looks a _third_ time, he realizes that _something is seriously wrong_.

Desmond is lying unnaturally still, chest barely rising with each slow breath, and he looks very, very pale. When William takes a shaky step forward and lays his hand over Desmond's too skinny ribs, it takes him too long to feel a heartbeat there.

He's still trying to process this, frozen in place as cold terror and the realization that he's messed everything up rushing through him, when the front door opens.

"William!" Shaun shouts up the stairs. "Where are you?"

He lets go of Desmond and goes running downstairs, taking the stairs two at a time. Shaun and Rebecca are there, waiting for him, and he skids to a stop a step or two away. "I hurt Desmond," he reports, voice numb because there is no room left in him for emotion. The two adults exchange a very expressive look of sceptical doubt that makes William want to scream in frustration. "Really!" he insists, when Rebecca opens her mouth to say something he's sure will be completely unhelpful. "It was…" shame over what he's done wars momentarily with the necessity of getting help. "I used the apple."

That gets their attention, at least. Shaun barks a string of ugly curses and runs upstairs, going faster than William has ever seen him move. Rebecca stares down at him, mouth open, but he can't face her for long. The disappointment and shock there is killing him, and the worst part of all is that he knows he deserves it. "Why would you do that, William?" she asks eventually, in a quiet, distant voice. "After what Desmond used the apple to do to you?"

"I-" He can't explain Lucy, or what seeing Desmond as an adult again had been like. How much it had hurt to watch the best and bravest man in the whole world reduced to a screaming baby. "I don't know," he says instead. "I just… wanted to help."

"The apple never helps anyone."

"Yea," he mumbles. "I know that now."

"What did you think it could do, anyway?" Rebecca asks. "How was it supposed to help?"

"I wanted him to be bigger," William admits. "So he doesn't have to be a baby anymore."

"Well, it kind of worked," Shaun says, coming back downstairs. His face looks grim.

"But?" Rebecca asks, picking up on the edge in his tone. "What's wrong with him, Shaun?"

"I don't know. He's not exactly breathing right. I had to call 911."

"Damnit," Rebecca says. She stares at him in frozen horror for a moment, then shakes her head and speaks in a mumble. "He'll need his papers altered." Because the hospital will ask questions if a four year old shows up with papers saying he's supposed to be eleven months, and they'll do the same if he shows up with no records at all. They can't afford the attention.

She's not done yet when the paramedics arrive, so Shaun rides in the ambulance with Desmond while William stays back with Rebecca. By the time she's done, it's half past six and some of the other assassins have started coming home. A few of them look oddly at William as he sits unmoving on the couch in the front room, but none of them ask what's happened, going to Rebecca instead.

By the time she's done, everyone in the house is worried and upset. "Come on," Rebecca says to William, tossing his coat at him. "We're going to the hospital."

William jumps to his feet. "Now?"

"Yea." She doesn't look at him. Her voice is shaky. "Go find your shoes."

He runs for the hall closet and is ready before Rebecca has a chance to prompt him a second time.

-/-

He's never been in the children's ward of a hospital. Plenty of other areas, yes. Many, many times in the memories that belong to the bad parts of his life. But so far, there have been no children unfortunate enough to get in his way. None but his son, anyway. Because always, _always_, it is Desmond that he hurts.

The ward is all the more depressing for it's attempts at cheerfulness. William can hear a baby crying somewhere down a hallway, and he draws deeper into the bright blue plastic chair he's sitting on. It doesn't help him ignore the crying any, so he crosses his legs and ducks his head and hunches over and it _still _doesn't help.

"Are you WIlliam?"

He looks up at the nurse and nods, just once. "Are they done?" Rebecca and Shaun had been led away to Desmond's doctor when they first arrived, and they've been holed up there ever since. They left him in the waiting room, probably so that he doesn't have to hear the exact details of how sick Desmond is, but all he's done in the hour or so since then is think of all the horrible things that could be happening right now, and how every single one of them would be his fault.

She nods, and beckons him to follow her.

The doctor's office is small but warm, clean without looking stark. The only furniture is a long wooden desk with three chairs grouped around it, and a tall bookshelf in nice wood against one wall. The nurse leaves him at the door, and William looks nervously across the room at Shaun, Rebecca, and the doctor. "What's wrong with Desmond?"

"Come here, William," Rebecca says, but he shakes his head, too scared to take another step. Going any farther in would trap him too far from the door to run if he needs to. He knows this is all his fault, and if he finds out that Desmond isn't going to get better, he doesn't want to be here any longer.

"Just tell me," he says.

Shaun nods, and while his voice is businesslike, his face is gentle. "Basically, his organs are underdeveloped. The muscles and things aren't strong enough to do what he needs them to do. So they're going to try a few treatments and some medications to get his strength up, but there's a high chance of complication before he's completely recovered.

"Is he going to be okay?"

"We'll either be taking him home by the end of the week, or… we likely won't be taking him home at all."

"Oh." Tears prick at the corners of William's eyes, but he tries to focus on the first part of the sentence instead of the second. "Can I see him?"

This time the doctor answers. "He's in the intensive care unit, and we need to limit the number of visitors he has until he's gotten some of his strength back."

"So no..?"

"Not today. Maybe later."

"Come on, William," Shaun says, standing with his keys in hand. "I'm going to drive you home while Rebecca stays here just in case."

He doesn't say anything, or move at all. Shaun takes him by the hand and very gently pulls him from the room.

"Am I in trouble?" William asks in the van during the drive home. "Are you mad at me?"

"Yes," Shaun says, after a very long pause. William gets the feeling he is purposefully holding himself back from saying more. "Yea, William, I am mad. Why would you use the apple when you know how much damage it can do? I'm just- I'm really trying to understand here, but you know _better _than this. You know the apple is bad, you know it hurts people. You must have known what you were doing would hurt Desmond, and you did it anyway. So yes, William, I am very mad."

"I didn't want to hurt him! I didn't, I promise!"

"Then why would you do that?

"I believe you. But sometimes you need to think things through." He sighs, and for a while they drive in silence. "The doctors told me and Rebecca that there's only a one in five chance that Desmond will get better. And they're not sure if he's going to wake up at all."

"I only wanted to help…"

"I know," Shaun snaps. He stops the van and pulls over on the side of the road. William waits, body tense with dread, half expecting Shaun's just going to kick him out and leave him in the middle of nowhere. But instead, Shaun puts his head down on the steering wheel and starts to cry. william pulls off his seatbelt and scrambles into the front passenger seat, leaning forward into Shaun's space.

"Don't cry!" he pleads. "Desmond's going to wake up, and get better, and come home. He's really strong, Shaun, I promise! He can do anything."

Shaun's laugh sounds almost choked, but it's definitely a laugh. "Yea, William, you're right. He's pretty strong."

"He's survived everything I've done to him so far," William says, very quietly, wishing he didn't have the memories of exactly what that is.

Shaun wipes his face in a quick, almost aggressive gesture, and puts his hand on William's shoulder. "Alright," he says. "Let's talk about this. You understand that you did something wrong?"

"Yes. Definitely."

"Then this time we're going to let it go. We won't talk about it anymore. But from now on, you have to understand that if you're caught breaking rules from now on, there's going to be some kind of punishment. Does that sound fair?"

"Yea," William says. Then: "Only if I'm caught?"

Shaun's laugh sounds much more honest this time, and he waves his hand at William to get back in his seat. "Happy birthday, by the way."

William doesn't understand at first. It's not his birthday. "What?"

"Well, not technically, I guess. But it's been a year since the thing with the apple, anyway. There's a cake back there, somewhere. Probably a little the worse for the wear by now, but you might as well have some. It was supposed to be a surprise, but… well."

William spies a plastic bag on the seat next to him, and pulls out a chocolate cake that looks like it's been sat on. He stares at it for almost thirty seconds without moving a muscle, and then he starts to cry.


	17. (Part 3)Growing Pains

**Chapter Four**

There are tubes in Desmond when he wakes up. Tubes in his arms, tubes up his nose, tubes everywhere. And there are wires, too, on his fingers and taped to his chest. As his first, fuzzy awareness of the world around him starts to sharpen, confusion gives way to panic and he struggles. His limbs feel heavy and hard to move but he manages somehow, pulling out every wire he can get his hands on (and they're so _little_, his hands. Didn't he used to be bigger? Or… smaller? In these first few moments he can almost but not quite remember).

An alarm starts beeping nearby, and then someone is shouting, and after that Desmond tries to stand but his legs fold underneath him, and his whole world goes back.

The next time he wakes up, Rebecca is standing next to his bed, reaching out to stop him from moving. "Careful, Desmond," she says. "You're... sick."

"I feel super sick," he mumbles. "I don't remember what happened. How did I get here?"

"Well… what _do _you remember?"

He shrugs his shoulders, energy too low to really answer. "Dunno," he says. "Stuff." He shakes his head, and the motion disturbs a curtain of wires and tubing. Panic rises up again, and he whimpers at the feeling of being trapped. Rebecca puts a hand on his, and doesn't say anything. "I don't want to be here," Desmond whispers at last. "I want to go home."

"I know," Rebecca says. "But you're sick."

He can feel it. The weakness in his limbs, the way his heart hammers too-too fast even as he has to fight for every breath. It's scary to lose control over all the parts in his body that are supposed to just work without his having to think about them. "How did I get sick?" he asks, but before Rebecca can answer, a doctor comes into the room.

Desmond falls silent, nervous if only because he has no idea what's supposed to happen next. There's a lot of poking and prodding, and eventually Desmond just closes his eyes and tries to ignore the doctor. Instead, he thinks, as hard as he can, about what's just happened and what will have to happen next. It doesn't help much, of course. There are no easy answers, no paths to follow or directions to take. But he's forged his own way before, carved out a place for himself and grown into the person he needed to be. He can do it again.

Later on, Shaun comes back with William, and the two of them join Rebecca next to Desmond's bed. Desmond manages to turn over (with effort, being careful not to tear any of his wires out) and look William right in the eyes. The older boy… his _father_… brother… whatever he is now, looks nervous. His face is red like he's been crying a lot.

Time almost seems to stand still as they stare at each other. Desmond imagines peeling back all the layers of apple induced weirdness in the two of them, all the forgetting and remembering, the cruelties and fears and hatreds and forgivenesses until he can see, ever so distantly, the love that's been there all along. He smiles and holds out his hand because that's as much as he can manage to move on his own right now.

William stares at the hand. "You're not mad?"

"No," Desmond says. There are other people in the room; a doctor, a pair of gossiping nurses, a few other kids in beds nearby, some with their families. He tries to be careful with what he says. "I know why you did it. I'm not a baby anymore."

William smiles and reaches out to take his hand. Desmond pretends not to notice when he starts to cry.

-/-

They let him leave five days later. Most of the doctors seem shocked that he's even awake, much less getting better. They hover at his bedside, staring at their charts and graphs like they don't believe the evidence of their own eyes.

It makes him wonder how close he really came to dying, but no one will tell him so he just focuses on getting better instead. The doctors sit him down before they let him go, and give him stern warnings about trying to do too much before he's ready. Take it easy, they say. Stay inside. Get plenty of rest and remember to take your medicine. Don't run around too much yet.

But when he takes his first shaky steps away from his hospital bed, they're also the first seps he's taken under his own power since December the year before. He laughs and sets off running down the hall just because he can. There are people shouting behind him but Desmond ignores him, and people in the way in front of him but Desmond avoids them.

Each step is more confident than the one before, and if he's quickly out of breath, that doesn't matter as much as the need to keep going, as fast as he can. The wing is set up in a kind of loop, so Desmond just keeps going until he's finished a full circle and come back to his waiting family. He throws himself into William's arms, panting heavily.

"Desmond!" William says, and his eyes are wide like full circles but his arms are steady as a rock. "Don't _do_ that!"

He's still smiling. He might never stop. "Let's go home."

"You're crazy," William says. "The doctors just told you not to push yourself before you're ready, and what's the first thing you do?"

"I'm _fine_," Desmond says, drawing the word out in emphasis. And he is, just a little tired maybe.

"It's not okay!" William insists. "What if you fell and got hurt?"

He shrugs. "I'm okay. You're still here."

William doesn't answer, and eventually Shaun scoops Desmond up and insists on carrying him to the van outside. Desmond complains and whines the whole way there, flopping like a dead fish in Shaun's arms and refusing to cooperate. Eventually he is deposited with little ceremony in the back of the van with William. Then he turns and kneels on the seat so he can stare out the window and watch the world roll past.

It feels like it's been a nage since he last saw this much of the world. It feels like an age since he'd last seen much of _anything_. It's like the last year or so of his life has been turned into a kind of blur in his head. He only remembers facts, with no memories of corresponding events or emotions to back them up. He knows where they're going, for example. He can picture the house in his mind clear as anything, but he doesn't remember actually living there.

The more he thinks about it, the worse the sick feeling in his stomach seems to get. Desmond slides down from the window and scoots over so that he's leaning against William's side. The older boy looks down at him in surprise, but shifts himself so that his arm ends up draped over Desmond's shoulders. "How do you feel?" he asks. His voice is low and quiet so that even though Shaun and Rebecca are in the front seat of the van, the conversation manages to feel private.

"I'm okay," Desmond says, and mostly he is. He's too young to care about all the problems that had bothered him as an adult, and old enough to have real control over his own body, like he hadn't when he was a baby. That makes him feel pretty good.

(And his _dad_ is here)

"I'm sorry," William says, not for the first time.

"I'm not," Desmond says fiercely. "I'm grateful, so stop saying you're sorry!"

William laughs and Desmond tilts his head back to smile up at him in response. "Maybe I will," e says. Then he frowns. "You'll take it easy for a while though, won't you? Until you start feeling better again?"

"No!"

"Desmond!" William groans. "You're not going to get better!"

"I'm tired of not doing anything," Desmond complains. "I haven't done anything but sleep for like a billion years."

"It's only been eleven months," William argues. "And you also did a lot of crying and pooping."

"Ew," Desmond says, wrinkling his nose up. "That's icky."

"_You're_ icky."

And Desmond doubles over with giggles, almost delirious with happiness. William watches him in confused concern, while Shaun and Rebecca smile at each other from the front seat.

They pull into the driveway and Desmond is the first one out when Shaun stops the van. Everything about this place is familiar, even though Desmond can't pull out a single specific memory of being here. He spins around on the grass until he gets dizzy and falls. Shaun grabs him around the waist so that Desmond dangles limply in his grasp for a moment. "You're going to be a troublemaker, aren't you?" he asks.

"Maybe," Desmond says, and wiggles until he drops out of Shaun's arms. William catches him when he falls, lightheaded and wobbly, still recovering from whatever had put him in the hospital in the first place. Desmond leans on him the rest of the way inside, and just having the older boy at his side makes him happy.

That night, Rebecca brings a pile of blankets into William's room and sets them up for Desmond to sleep on. They'll need to make changes to his room before he can go back there- he's too big for a _baby _crib, now.

So he burrows into the nest of blankets, tired but happy in a way that goes all the way through to his bones. William climbs into bed and peeks his head over the edge to say goodnight.

"Night, dad," Desmond says, and William sighs.

"You can't keep calling me dad," he says. "People will think it's weird."

"I don't care."

"I do," William says, and Desmond pulls his borrowed pillow into his chest. He hugs it for a moment without saying anything.

"Don't you want to be my dad?" he asks at last.

William is quiet for a very long time. Then he says, "No. I want to be your brother and your friend."

Desmond doesn't like that. He wants his dad to be his _dad_, not his friend. He's already had to grow up once knowing his dad doesn't care. This time, he just wants to get it right."

"You okay?" William asks.

"Great," Desmond lies.

There's a rustling noise of William shifting around on the bed, and then he says, "Come here."

Desmond considers saying no, but his legs don't listen and before he knows it he's climbing into bed next to William. Even though both of them are small, it's still crowded in William's narrow bed. Their knees knock together, and their faces are close enough for Desmond can feel William's breath against his forehead. "Do you love me?" he whispers.

"Lots," William says.

"But you don't want to be my dad."

"Why would you want to be my son?" William asks. "I'm very bad at it. We both know that. The first time was bad enough."

"But you can be better now! You already _are_ better!"

"Not better _enough_," William says. "Des, I promise that from now on I will love you and protect you as much as I can. But I shouldn't ever be your dad. I lost that right."

"How about just when no one else is here?" Desmond pleads. He doesn't care if William feels like he doesn't deserve him. He just wants his dad this time around.

"Okay," William says. "I can live with that."

Desmond smiles at him through the darkness, and because they're alone he says, "I love you dad."

"Love you too, Desmond."

He wiggles happily under the blankets, inching closer to William. "Dad?"

"Yea?"

He takes a deep breath. "What are we going to do about Lucy?"

"Nothing," William says firmly. "I can't let her tell the templars about you."

"But _dad_," Desmond whines. "She said she's not the only one."

"Only one what?"

"She died and came back," Desmond says. "And she said there's more like her that did the same thing. What if they're assassins? We have to help them!"

"Desmond-"

"Dad!"

They both go quiet suddenly as someone walks past the door, stops, and peeks in on them. Desmond holds his breath until whoever it is finishes looking and shuts the door. The quiet creak of the floor under their feet tracks their movement down the hall.

"Okay," William says. "I'll try to deal with her at school, but you need to stay out of it, alright? I need you to be safe."

Desmond nods. "But let me help if you need me."

"Sure," William says, but Desmond can tell just from the way he says it that he's never going to ask. Desmond grumbles a little but doesn't have the energy to argue right now. Later, he can insist that he be involved, but for now…

For now, all he wants to do is sleep. He's out almost as soon as his head hits the pillow, drowning in feelings of safety and peace that he hasn't felt in months.

-/-

He has a dream that night. And that's sort of cool all by itself, because he hadn't really dreamed much while he was a baby. But the dream itself is… strange. It's not like any dream he's ever had before, not really like dreaming at all. Everything feels too crisp and too… honest, somehow. It's the same kind of feeling as when the apple had shown him the vision of himself and his father and Lucy as adults again. Not real, but still _true._

He's lying in an open field somewhere, next to a shallow stream that burbles and snaps almost cheerfully. A frog croaks nearby, and the low drone of insects buzzes in his ears. It's warm, hot even, like July instead of November, and the smell of fresh grass floats around him like a cloud. Everything is too bright, and he scrunches up his face against the sunlight. Then he sits up, and sees that he is not alone.

As far as he can see, there is only one other person in the field with him, a boy around William's age squatting at the edge of the stream, studying it with a kind of morose intensity. Desmond gets to his feet, moving as carefully and as quietly as he can, creeping closer as the other boy pokes the toes of one foot into the water. A flurry of bright, tiny fish dart away from the disruption, and he smiles just the smallest smile.

The boy is obviously in bad shape. One side of his face is brused and beaten, swollen so badly so that one eye is stuck closed and he is made almost unrecognizable (but not quite, because Desmond can _swear _he's seen him somewhere before, even if he can't place him exactly). One arm hangs limp and sort of bent, and looks like it should be in a sling, only no one has bothered to get him one.

And then his eyes dart to the side, his head turns, and realizes he is being watched. Suddenly, Desmond is on his back in the grass again, with the other boy on top of him, pressing down, pushing him into the ground. His good elbow presses down onto Desmond's throat, and he glares through his open eye with clear aggression. "Give me a reason to stop," he growls in a voice that says 'I dare you'.

"Get off!" Desmond shouts, completely ignoring the boy's attempts at threat. Because honestly, he can't be any older than eight, and while Desmond is maybe four at the moment (it's hard to tell), eight is still not that scary. Desmond knees him in the stomach and forces all his weight sideways so that they go rolling toward the stream together, shouting and punching until they hit water. The surprise of that forces them apart, kneeling a few feet from one another in the knee high water.

"This isn't a dream, is it?" Desmond asks at last.

"No," says the other boy, still studying Desmond's face, watching him for any sign of attack. "I don't think so."

"Then what is it?"

The other boy stands up, so Desmond clambers to his feet as well. He doesn't like having to crane his head back to keep him in sight. The stranger pauses, then shrugs, and they wade out of the stream together, settling down just barely on dry ground.

"So you're done hitting me?" Desmond asks.

"I'm tired," the boy mumbles, and the way he hunches his shoulders is so weary and adult and _familiar_ that Desmond finally recognizes him. He does a double take, doubting himself because even if this is (sort of not quite) a dream, that's impossible.

"Haytham?"

And how he jumps at that, shifting backwards from Desmond as if just the act of recognition has shifted the balance of power here toward Desmond. "How do you know me?" he demands. "Who are you?"

"Desmond," he says, and because that name won't mean anything to Haytham, adds, "I'm your great-great-blah-blah-blah grandson."

"How do you know?"

"There's this thing called an animus-"

"Oh." Haytham crosses his arms and purses his lips together.

"You've heard of it, then?"

Haytham sighs, and the sound and the sadness seem too big for such a small person. "I know what an animus is," he says, with a kind of heavy wet that tells Desmond he's had some experience.

Part of Desmond really wants to ask for more details, because it sounds like there's a very strange story there. But he says nothing. Instead, he stands and crosses the several feet between them so that he can give Haytham a hug. And his ancestor has at least a foot on him in height, but he's also very skinny. Desmond has no trouble wrapping his arms all the way around Haytham. He can count every rib in the older boy's chest, and feel his heart beating steadily against him.

Desmond doesn't expect Haytham to return the hug at all. He doesn't really know what possessed him to try it in the first place, when his time in the animus, in Haytham's head, should have taught him better than that. And at first, Haytham only sits perfectly still wrapped in Desmond's arms, like he's weathering a storm, waiting for Desmond to get tired and stop. But Desmond doesn't. He want's to, he _means _to, it's just that… well, it's precisely because he's been inside Haytham's head that he can't make himself let go.

Even without knowing the details, he can see how badly Haytham has been beaten by life lately. Desmond has no trouble jumping to the conclusion that Haytham must also have woken (in a time he does not know, centuries after his own death) in a body that is much too young. Everyone else is doing it, after all, and he knows exactly how much Haytham would have detested that. And maybe if Haytham didn't remember, it would be different. But no child fights the way Haytham had lashed out at Desmond earlier, and that makes everything worse.

And then all of a sudden, Haytham hugs him back. His arms shoot out to grab Desmond and squeeze, tight, and the older boy's fingers dig into Desmond's arms until they leave marks. He holds Desmond so tightly that breathing becomes a struggle. With anyone else, Desmond would have complained and broken away.

But he can hear the pain in Haytham's ragged breathing, and anyone he knows that Haytham hasn't had anyone to hug before. It could not be more obvious that he does not know how.

**-/-**

**Toddler Desmond is my favorite to write. I just picture him as this constant ball of energy that doesn't know how to sit still. And now that he's starting to really forgive William and heal from his childhood, he gets to be happy which is _great._**


	18. (Part 3)Prisoner in the Basement

**Chapter Five**

Desmond is still asleep when William gets up for school the next morning, face screwed up in concentration as if he's dreaming about some intensely complicated problem. He's kicked most of the blankets off during the night, so that now he's half underneath them and half on top, hopelessly tangled up in the sheets. William dresses in the almost darkness of the room and leaves as quietly as possible.

He's almost done with breakfast when Desmond comes crashing downstairs ("Don't run, you're still sick" Shauns colds, and Desmond slows to a reluctant walk) and into the kitchen. He sits down next to William and stares with wide eyes like he's trying to say something important without words.

"What?" William asks. "I don't get it."

"I gotta tell you stuff."

"So tell me," William says, confusion mounting.

Desmond shakes his head and looks pointedly at Shaun and Rebecca, who are both in the room as well. "It's secret stuff," he says.

Rebecca laughs. "You can do your secret stuff later," she says. "We need to talk about a couple things first."

"But-"

"I promise," she says, and William catches the smile in her eyes even if Desmond doesn't. Probably a good thing, because while Desmond seems absolutely serious, William sort of suspects Rebecca is taking it as a joke. "You two can talk before William leaves for school."

"Fine," Desmond sighs, reluctantly reaching for something to eat. When he's settled with a bowl of cereal (that he insists on pouring himself, spilling cereal all over the table in the process), the questions finally start.

"Do you remember us at all?" Rebecca asks, softly.

"Yea," Desmond says. "Of course I do." He looks at her sternly, but his face is too round and soft to pull the expression off. William ducks his head into his plate of toast to keep from giggling. "I didn't forget anything."

"You remember being a baby?" Shaun asks.

"Um… actually no, not that part. It's kind of blurry and weird. But I remember everything from before that."

"So you remember-"

"Growing up at the farm, running away, going to New York, being kidnapped, meeting you guys, hurting dad…" he falters. "And then dying. So yea. Pretty much everything before being a baby."

"You don't act like you remember," Shaun says. Rebecca elbows him in the ribs. "No offense."

Desmond stares at the last few cornflakes now drifting through his milk. "I don't like thinking about that stuff," he tells the cereal. "They're too big to fit inside my head. It's sad and it hurts."

"Desmond…" Rebecca frowns at him. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay." He smiles at her, bouncing back with a suddenness that William is starting to admire in Desmond. "Everything's going to be better now."

"I'm glad you think so."

"Yea! You guys are all nice, so this time, everything will be better."

"Thanks, Des," Rebecca says. "You're a good kid."

"A good person," Shaun corrects, reaching forward to ruffle Desmond's hair. "You were good to start with."

"Hey!" Desmond objects, pulling his head away. He's smiling with a silly kind of pride, though, a big, goofy grin covering most of his face. "Thanks."

William finishes his breakfast and gets up to take his dishes to the sink; he's only a step or two away from the table when Desmond falls off his chair and follows him into the kitchen. Shaun and Rebecca stay behind, and William can hear them talking earnestly, in low voices. He carefully stacks his dirty plates and turns back to Desmond. "Okay," he says. "What secret stuff do you want to talk about?"

"Ask Lucy about Haytham Kenway," Desmond says, which is so far from whatever William had expected that at first he doesn't know what to say. But Desmond just stares at him in absolute seriousness.

"Why?" William asks at last. "Why would she even know about him?'

"I dreamed about him last night. We talked about stuff, and he said he knew what an animus was. So he's either with the assassins or the templars, right? And we'd know if he was with the assassins. Someone would have said something, and they haven't. So he must be with the templars, and Lucy said she's not the only one that came back."

"It was probably just a dream," William says dismissively.

"Why would you say that?" Desmond asks, voice creeping up toward a whine. "Weirder stuff than that has happened. Lucy was dead and she's back."

"But Haytham Kenway has been dead for centuries, not months. It's different from Lucy."

Desmond sticks out his lower lip and crosses his arms. "Just ask her!' he insists.

"Alright," William promises, taken aback. He's forgotten how stubborn Desmond was as a child. The only thing that's changed now is him- it's time he learned to give in once in a while. "I'll ask."

Desmond stops pouring, but doesn't uncross his arms. "He just looked scared, okay? I'm worried. Someone beat the crap out of him."

Language, Desmond," William scolds, and Desmond actually smiles a little.

"Sorry," he says.

"Where did you even learn that?"

"I'm not _actually _four, dad," Desmond says in almost comical exasperation. "I'm twenty six."

William smiles and squeezes his shoulder. They don't get to talk anymore after that, because just then Rebecca comes in and sends William hurrying off to catch the bus. The last thing he hears before grabbing his backpack and running out the door, is Desmond complaining that they'll have to spend the day buying clothes and furniture for him now that he's bigger.

It's his first day back at school since Desmond went into the hospital, and more importantly the first day he'll have to see Lucy again. She ignores him on the bus, and he lets her, but at school he sits in the chair next to hers and grabs her wrist when she tries to get up and move away.

"Get off, William," she snaps.

"No."

"I'll scream."

"So?" A group of boys shout at each other on the other side of the room. Nearby, a girl shrieks shrilly at the sight of a spider.

"Fine." She admits defeat, slumping back in her seat and scowling. "What do you want?"

What _does _he want? To understand, mostly. Why is she alive? How did she come to be here, in the same class as him? Design, or just a horrible cosmic accident? If she's not being beaten at home, where did her bruises come from? And when she talks about her dad (like she's honestly afraid of him), who exactly is she talking about? Or is there no father figure at all, and he's just looking for sympathy?

But she's not going to just come out and tell him any of that, so he thins about what Desmond had said, instead.

"What do you know about Haytham Kenway?"

And her whole face just goes completely blank, falling into a mask of inscrutability that only succeeds in telling him he's found something important. "Who?" she asks, but it's already far too late. William looks down, and her hands are shaking in the one-two-three seconds before she pulls back and folds them under her armpits.

He smiles like he already knows everything, even though he has no idea what's going on, and does not bother her for the rest of the day. She watches him though, staring and staring until 2:30 when the school day ends and they're released to the busses.

-/-

The bus drops Lucy off two blocks north of her house (not home), four blocks west of where William and the other assassins live. Four blocks from the apple, the only thing in the world that has a chance of saving her from _this_.

Four blocks might as well be the entire world. She's never getting out of here.

The house is silent when she lets herself in, cold and apparently (but not really) empty. As always, she pauses in the doorway for a second, listening for noises from the basement. Today, everything is completely silent. This either means everything downstairs is going well, or very badly. At the very least, it means there is no interrogation going on at this exact moment.

She drops her backpack and jacket of in the room she's been assigned, taking care to be neat. There is no room in this house for pointless messes, and she's not in the mood to face the consequences. Then she goes into the kitchen and slaps together a sandwich. Nothing special, because she doesn't have the energy to do more right now, but feeding the prisoner is her job.

She carries the sandwich down as quietly as possible, unlocking both locks on the basement door. Juhani had them put on specifically when they took the building over as a base of operations. When she's downstairs, she pauses a second in the doorway to orient herself to the near darkness, taking in the depressing scene in its entirety.

Most of the unfinished basement is nothing but concrete floor and bare beams in the walls. Half is used for storage, and the other has been set up as an improvised living space. There's nothing there but a single cot with a thin blanket, a half bath (toilet and sink, but no shower, and the door's been taken of to remove any chance of privacy), and a chain bolted to the wall. The other end of the chain is attached to someone's leg, and it is this someone that Lucy finds herself trying very hard not to look at.

"Is that for me?"

"What?" she looks in his direction at last, but her eyes are drawn to one of the old bloodstains on the floor rather than the boy that the blood once belonged to.

"The food."

She scowls at the impatience in his voice. "Yea," she snaps. "Of course. Who else would it be for?"

He treats her to a very pointed silence, so Lucy sighs and pushes the plate across the floor toward him. The boy nods his thanks but doesn't make a move towards it.

"Aren't you going to eat that?" she asks.

"Eventually."

"You know I have to stay here and wait for you to finish."

He nods. "I want to talk."

"I don't."

And he smiles, obviously enjoying the tiny bit of power he still has. This is an old game, one he plays whenever he wants attention, and while sometimes he has interesting things to say, today she doesn't have the energy for it. "Just eat the damn sandwich, Haytham."

"I will." He doesn't.

"Fine. Then say what you want to say and let me leave."

"I've been trying to figure out why you keep coming back," Haytham says. "They keep letting you leave, and you keep coming back."

"I'm not a prisoner."

"That's not true."

But it is. Lucy still has some good will built up with Juhani and the others, but Haytham had run through all of his in a single, staggeringly stupid decision.

"At least I've already fallen as far as I can go," he says, and in fact there is a certain calmness in his voice as he says it that she envies. "You're still walking that line, marking time until you make whatever mistake will get you thrown down here with me. You're as much a prisoner as I am."

"No!"

Her protest echoes in the room, and she lets it fade to silence before speaking again, more softly this time. "Was it worth it?" she asks, and both of them know what she's talking about without elaboration.

"I would do it again, if I could."

"Really?"

"In a heartbeat."

Lucy isn't quite sure she believes that. But then there is Haytham Kenway, sitting on his cot with the chain around his leg, looking perfectly satisfied, almost proud of his decision to throw away his freedom, his safety, and in the longer term (most likely) his life. "How did we come to be here?" she whispers. "And you- I don't understand how come you aren't upset about this."

He shrugs and turns away so that his back is to her, snagging the sandwich off it's plate in a move that is surprisingly fluid given how injured he is. "We're both going to end up in the same place," he says. "The only difference is that I'm not ashamed of how I got here."

She can't stop herself from thinking about that. Even when the food is gone and she's free to go back upstairs with the dirty plate, Lucy doesn't move. She leans against the wall as afternoon fades to evening, unnoticed in the constant semidarkness of the basement, and she wonders if Haytham is right.

**-/-**

**So normally, this is the point where I ask if you guys want a next part of this fic. But I really want to write about Haytham and Lucy, so part four will happen whether anyone's interested in reading it or not.**

**(Please be interested :P)**


	19. (Part 4)Templars

**October 2012: Thirteen Months Ago**

**-/-**

It starts with a feeling like fire in her heart. It's not her stomach that hurts as Desmond buries his blade into a place she knows is fatal. It's her heart that feels like it's burning in her chest because _God _she could have loved this man. If only he hadn't been an assassin, if only she hadn't been a templar, if only they'd been blessed with normal lives. If only everything had been different.

She stares at the apple instead of the blade in her stomach, or the face of the man that wields that blade. She wishes, in a desperate, hopeless way, that things had been different.

And then… they are.

The apple pulses in her vision, until the entirety of her world is nothing but golden light. And now, finally, there is pain. A slow, creeping pain that crawls over all of her body, inside and out, pushing on her from every direction until she feels something give. And then she starts to fall apart.

She does not know how long this lasts. Her sense of time, of self, is horribly shattered, so that she doesn't know what is real or even if the word _real_ has any meaning whatsoever. And through it all, as every piece of her is slowly ripped away, she has only one certainty to hold onto.

She is not dead yet.

And this is what ultimately helps her claw her way back to the real world. She follows the light. The apple pulses, always, just in front of her. It dominates her field of vision, and never actually goes away. And then (after seconds or minutes, months or years), something changes about the apple. It's like someone is pulling on its power, using it again. And Lucy lunges toward the surge of power, desperate to be whole and free and human again. The light of the apple _consumes_ her, swallows her up. It hurts, but it is a _good_ kind of hurt, and she smiles.

Her senses return to her one at a time. First, smell: there is a fresh scent in the air, like green, growing things. Second, touch: the ground underneath her is uneven and rough. She's lying on grass and dirt. Third, taste: her mouth is coated in a fuzzy grossness, as if she's dealing with the remnants of a hangover from a particularly thorough night out drinking. Fourth, hearing: a cold voice is telling her it's time to get up now, saying it over and over again with dwindling patience. Fifth, sight: she opens her eyes and sees an enormous bear of a man standing in front of her.

She screams and scrambles backward, and suddenly all her senses explode into an absolute overload of information. She is in the middle of what looks like a park. The giant man is not a stranger, she knows him; he is also not a giant. She is small. She is so, so small, and that doesn't make any sense. The shaking feebleness of her limbs (all knees and elbows with no muscle on the bone) scares her. The fear is big and paralyzing, too big for the smallness that is suddenly her.

Lucy crumbles into a heap on the ground, legs giving out in protest as she utterly fails to make sense of the scene around her. The giant (or very normal sized) man walks toward her with a slow, measured pace that does nothing to convince Lucy that he does not mean her harm.

"Lucy Stillman," he says. "Do you know who I am?" His voice is accented but she doesn't recognize where it's from. She does know his face, at least, and so she nods at him.

"You were one of Vidic's guinea pigs," she says, and makes a face at the high pitch of her voice.

"I would watch who exactly you're calling a guinea pig," he says. "_Child_."

Child. Somehow, she is a child. She's not dead, just… a child. "Lucy," she snaps. "I do have a name."

"Yes," he agrees. "Do you know that you're dead?"

She takes a moment to check, feeling her pounding heartbeat and the heaving fear of her chest as she tries to get her breathing under control. "I'm pretty sure I'm alive," she says at last, without much conviction.

"The assassins buried you. Thirteen months ago, in Rome."

Rome. The temple. The _apple_. "Thirteen months?"

"More than a year," he says. "And then suddenly you're here. Far younger than you should be, but very much alive." His smile is all teeth. "Congratulations."

"Um…" she doesn't know what to say. "Where is 'here'?"

He shrugs. "The middle of nowhere. Scotland."

"Why are you here then?" Because this is no coincidence, the odds are just too astronomical that this man should be in this place just as she wakes up, or… comes back from the dead, or whatever just happened.

"We were scanning for first civilization artifacts and found an energy spike. It led me here, now. I don't know the exact mechanics of what happened, but you being here is related in some way to a precursor artifact."

The apple. She says nothing about it.

"What happens now?"

"Well for the time being, you're coming back with me."

"Why?"

"It was not my decision," he says, which doesn't surprise her much at all. That has always been how the order works. "I don't much want to babysit you when I already have a daughter of my own to worry about, and I'm sure you would rather remain active in the order than come home with me."

"Yes," she says softly.

"But you're a child now," he goes on. "And while I have been arguing with my employers since they first sent me here, it has been made clear to me that you are an asset until someone figures out why you're alive. And… why you're a child."

"And after that?"

"Well. If you're lucky, someone will decide that you're still useful."

She doesn't like this. She doesn't like any of this, but she especially doesn't like the idea that she only stays alive as long as someone else decides they _want _her alive. For the first time in years, she has to wonder what the future will hold, and she has to do so without any control over that at all.

She could be dead in a month, and no one will miss her.

Her chest tightens. "I think I'm going to have a panic attack," she says matter of factly.

"What?"

And then suddenly she's on the ground, trying to suck in air as her hands shake and her mind races hundreds of miles ahead. It lasts what seems like forever, and when it's over she is a huddled mess on the ground, wet faced and humiliated and trembling.

"Are you ready to go now?"

She nods, because there is clearly no other choice, and after a false start or two, manages to get to her feet. "Yes," she croaks. He doesn't look at her as he nods and starts walking, so she hurries to keep up. "Wait…"

"Hurry."

"I mean- you didn't tell me your name."

"Juhani Osto Berg."

"What a mouthful," she says without thinking.

He turns back, impatient. "Come on then," he says, and to Lucy's embarrassment he scoops her up and over her shoulder, and carries her away.

**-/-**

She stays with Juhani and his daughter, Elina, for several months. It… doesn't start off too badly. Juhani is a violent man, one of the best field agents the templars have, but he is also surprisingly gentle at times. He worships his daughter, who thinks the world of him in return. Lucy finds that the more childlike she can make herself, the better things go for her. It's when she starts thinking, when she insists on being told what's going on or stands her ground against him, that Juhani is most inclined to be angry. The first beating comes within a week of her return, and she comes away from more than one encounter after that beaten black and blue.

And as time goes on, the beatings get progressively worse. Lucy is a conveniently placed outlet for whatever is going wrong in his life at the moment, and she can't exactly defend herself. It's painful and confusing, and the worst is knowing that not so long ago, she would have been able to do something about it.

Sometimes, she's allowed to help. Even with her size and age, she still knows things that can help, And Juhani has a bad habit of driving people away, meaning she's one of the few people that can't get out of helping him. Sometimes, he's that desperate.

And sometimes, things go wrong.

"Lucy," Juhani says to her one night. "Come here."

They are in a motel room, somewhere. Lucy has no idea where, exactly. She has not even been told the country, so all she knows is that it's cold and that she doesn't recognize the language. This doesn't help her much. Lots of countries are cold and speak languages she doesn't understand.

She walks over to where he's sitting, and he takes both of her hands in one of his. The other hand reaches out to gently tilt her chin toward him, so that their eyes meet. Every touch is soft, but Lucy is horribly aware that her hands are trapped and his hands (proved deadly so many times by now) are mere inches from her throat.

"You were supposed to be lookout today," he says, and she manages to keep from flinching. She'd expected this, after the disaster that today's mission had been. She's only surprised it had taken so long for them to get to this conversation. "You should have warned us that the assassins were coming."

"I didn't see them," she says, leaning back just slightly so that his finger slips away from her face. He lets it happen.

"I know you didn't see," he says calmly. "And what happened because of that?"

"Two of us died," she says, emphasizing the 'us' to remind him that they are all still on the same side. "And now we're on the run."

"Yes," Juhani agrees. "Two people are dead, because you could not do what you said you could." He does not say 'us'.

"It won't happen again."

"It won't," he agrees. "You're staying home with Elina from now on."

She can't let this happen. She _isn't _a child, she needs to believe that- it's the only thing that keeps her from giving up and breaking down completely. She needs this, needs to be useful and fighting for something she believed in. Believes. "I'll do better next time!" she protests, and her voice is so so shrill. "I'll-"

His hand is nearly the size of her entire head, and when it slams into the side of her head, it feels like the sky falling on top of her. Lucy cries out and tries to jerk away, but Juhani's other hand closes tighter around her arms, and he pulls Lucy closer to him. "You've screwed up too many times already. When you're older, I suppose you might be useful again. Might. But right now, you're not. You're a liability, and you need to be taken out of the field."

"Please!"

He throws her aside so hard she hears something crack when she hits the wall. Pain flares up in her arm, and she curls into a protective ball. She hates Juhani, and herself, and this entire stupid situation. And she hurts. God, she _hurts_. "Okay," she whimpers. "I'm done."

"You'll be good?"

She nods. "I'll be good." She spits the word out. Good, like a well trained dog.

It makes her feel like the child she's trying so hard not to be, but it satisfies Juhani. The man backs off, face mellowing into something that is almost sympathetic. "Things will get better now," he promises. She's dizzy, she can't tell if he's mocking her, or serious, or maybe just a hallucination. "You don't have to try so hard to be what you're not."

But what she's _not _is a child! No matter if she may feel like it sometimes (more and more every day, as her life spirals out of control and the world starts to seem too big for her to handle). And no matter if this is what Juhani wants her to be. She refuses to give up just to make his world that little bit easier. For him or for her.

For now, while she is low on options and still burning with pain and defeat, she ducks her head and mumbles words of sweet agreement that make him smile and nod like he's the controlling father _she will never let him be_. But in her head, she swears to herself that she will outlast this. She will escape. She will be free again, one day.

-/-

He is a different man altogether around Elina. She is his daughter, a tiny, pale girl with few friends and no idea what her father does for a living. As far as she is aware, Juhani just leaves for a while, and then comes back after a week or a month or more, always bearing gifts from far off places and wild stories of how he came to acquire them.

"This is a dinosaur tooth," Juhani says to Elina, with complete seriousness, when they return this time.

After that, none of the conversation is in English, and Lucy quickly loses interest. She knows the tooth is made of plastic and he bought it in a gift shop at the airport. But Elina looks absolutely ecstatic at her stupid gift, so Lucy doesn't say anything. Besides, they don't actually speak the same language.

She retreats to the far end of the room and tries not to think about how this is going to be for the rest of her life. Or at least until she grows up, which right now seems like it is never going to happen. For all she knows, it won't- she's become a child through artificial means, how does she know she'll grow up the normal way?

This is going to be _every single day _for the rest of her life. Just watching other people be happy. She wants her own life back, but she hasn't really had that since the day she signed on as an assassin.

This is going to be every day.

Elina corners Lucy after dinner, crumbs on her face and the necklace in her open palms like some blessed gift from above.

"Yea," Lucy says, glancing down at it. "I was there when your dad bought it. Bought, Elina, so whatever story of treasure hunts or crazy adventures that he told you, it's a bald faced lie."

"Luuuuu!"

"I know you can say my name correctly," Lucy says, but Elina only looks at her with a kind of cheeky, happy smile that Lucy knows she didn't pick up from her father.

"Luuuuu-"

"You are impossible!"

"Lu!"

She sighs and hugs Elina. "...to be mad at."

Elina pulls back and holds up the necklace again to be admired.

"Yes," Lucy agrees, because she knows when she's been beat. "Fine, it's nice. Your dad must love you a lot."

-/-

We're moving."

It's June, a Tuesday, and these are the first words Juhani has to say to Lucy when he comes back from… somewhere. She has no idea where he was, only that it's been three weeks and apparently she's not worth keeping in the loop anymore.

"Where are we going?"

"Montreal, after a couple of stops."

"Why?"

"There's another you coming. We're going to retrieve them, then relocate for my next mission."

"Another me? What's that supposed to mean?"

"We saw a similar energy spike to the one observed right before you arrived. Larger, this time. Exponentially."

"You didn't relocate for me."

"Like I said. We're going to Montreal for my next mission, after that. I'm being restationed."

"Oh. Isn't Montreal where Abstergo's entertainment division is located?"

He looks at her flatly. "Yes."

"So… it's just a bit of a demotion for you, isn't it? Entertainment?" Normally, she wouldn't dare taunt him like that, but he hasn't been this talkative around her for a very long time. She's going to take advantage of it while she can.

"It would be," Juhani says with just a ghost of a superior smile. "If not for the projects they're going to be working on during the next few years."

"What kind of projects?"

A wall of completely unhelpful silence greets this question.

"Right," she says. "I'm probably not allowed to know that, am I?"

"Absolutely not."

She twists her mouth like she's just tasted something sour, but doesn't argue. She never argues. Not really. Not anymore. There's no point. She'll lose. "When do we leave?" she asks instead.

"Tonight."

"Tonight?" she demands. "What kind of warning is that?"

"What?" His smirk is almost joyful. "Are you telling me you can't even handle a little last minute packing?"

It's so far _beneath _her that she almost can't stand it. But there's no other choice. She can't do anything but nod and smile and pray that something will change when they get to Canada.

**-/-**

**I have no excuse for my lateness. lol I actually have a bunch of this story just sitting around on my computer waiting to be published, but anyway here you go at last. **

**Also, sort of important note: please let me know if you notice any sections that are missing/repeated/whatever while reading. I ended up moving a bunch of sections around and splitting chapters apart and combining them and basically I think everything made it but I'm not 100% sure.**


	20. (Part 4)Everything Old is Young Again

His eyes feel like they're glued together. His arms and legs… his whole body… everything feels compressed. It doesn't exactly hurt, but he doesn't like it much. Slowly, as if his arm is as heavy as a stone, he raises it to his face and lets it fall over his eyes. The light hurts.

There's a soft, breathy noise next to his ear, the whining prelude to a baby's crying. Haytham groans as the tiny shrieks (they have not escalated to full out sobs just yet) start drilling into the side of his head. He doesn't like babies. They cry and smell and worst of all they always need someone to take care of them. He hates the neediness of it all. Babies and children and just…

The baby won't stop crying, and it's right next to Haytham's ear. Reluctantly, as if the simple motion is using up all the energy he has in him, Haytham rolls over and opens his eyes. What he sees takes all his remaining breath away.

It's the eyes that do it. Everything else is changed, but the eyes are exactly the same. He hasn't seen the man they belong to since he was ten years old, and honestly this should be impossible, but he knows _without a doubt _that this baby is his father.

He sits up, suddenly filled with a shaky, desperate energy, and picks the baby up. Most of his mind is fully occupied with the revelation that his dead father is lying on the ground next to him, alive and an infant. But part of him is noticing that his body is too small as well, that everything is changed and off balance and wrong. It's a small part, though. He can't pay attention to himself when his father… his father is…

Edward starts to cry at last. He screams and screams. He won't quiet, and Haytham has no idea what to do to make things better. He has never had to comfort a baby before, never even held one. This is nothing but unexplored territory for him. What do babies _need_? Milk. Warmth. Clean clothes. Where does he get those?

For a long time he stays o the ground without so much as looking around. It doesn't matter. None of this is possible, anyway. The last thing he remembers is a fight with Connor, and being badly hurt, and then a darkness that is finally pierced by a strange golden light that seems to speak without words.

_Not yet._

And here he is, and everything's wrong but he's still alive (probably?) and so is his dead father (kind of). This has to be some kind of afterlife, he thinks, or a last, dying dream before his brain just shuts down for good.

At least it's a good dream. At least he's not alone.

The world starts to dim and go dark- a last sunset he is too numb to pay attention to. Edward goes quiet in his arms at last, very quiet. The baby begins to shiver violently as the air turns cold, and then he closes his eyes, going still. Haytham is cold as well, and very, very tired. He lets his body go slack, and his eyes droop closed. Time starts to slip away, and he doesn't bother to fight the loss.

And then Haytham feels arms around him, gently lifting him off the ground. Haytham whimpers and tightens his hold on Edward, but the movement isn't strong enough to keep from falling quickly into a dark sleep.

He has a nightmare, a dream within a dream that is far less pleasant than the one that preceded it. There is nothing clear in this one, just the bright red of blood absolutely everywhere. It's irrationally frightening, and when a hand falls on his shoulder to shake him awake, Haytham whimpers and lashes out blindly, panting like he's run a million miles. The terror of dreams clings to him like cobwebs, sticky and blinding and constricting.

"Stop."

"Go away!" he protests, almost crying.

"You were shouting in your sleep."

"Go away! Go away, go _away_!"

"You're hyperventilating. Calm down. Breathe."

He forces himself to follow the advice, taking great, shuddering breaths until his vision stops swimming. And then he frowns, because of all the people in the world to find him like this, Haytham wouldn't have wanted it to be _him_.

"Connor?" His voice is too high. t shakes. He's _still _scared. He wants his dad, something he hasn't thought since he was about twelve. But his dad is a baby, and Haytham looks around anxiously, hoping Edward will still be there.

'There' is a rundown shack, dirty and cramped and smelling like the sea. It's completely empty of furniture, but in the corner is a pile of blankets that Haytham goes running toward before he can even think. Sure enough, Edward is there, happily asleep and actually smiling.

He crouches down over the baby, but doesn't wake him. Edward is wrapped in a warm blanket, sleeping peacefully. His face is no longer pale, and he's breathing normally. Haytham just looks, and then turns back to Connor, who looks very confused and mildly concerned by now. "Did you do this?"

"Do wha?" Connor asks. "We need to talk-"

"Did you bring him here?" Haytham demands. "Wrap him up, make him safe?"

"Yes," Connor says. "Who is he?"

Haytham hugs him, impulsively but with real feeling. He's starting to believe that maybe all this is somehow real, and if that's the case, then Connor has just saved Edward's life, while Haytham would have watched the baby freeze to death. "Thank you."

"No," Connor says, grabbing Haytham's arms and forcibly separating them. "We need to talk. I need to know everything. What you're doing here, how much you remember, who he is." He points at Edward. "Now."

"I don't know what I'm doing here," Haytham says. "You brought me, I assume you're the most likely to know the answer to that. I remember that you came very close to killing me and then… a bright light."

"I _did _kill you," Connor says, and he looks gratifyingly guilty about the whole thing. "You died. They buried you, years ago."

"Did you go?"

"Go where?"

"To my funeral."

"No," Connor says, and his typically impassive face gives Haytham no clue whatsoever about whether or not Connor is lying. "And neither did anyone else, really."

"Well then," Haytham says, testily. "Thank you for killing all my friends."

Silence.

"You never told me why this baby is so important, Connor says eventually.

"Because he's my dad."

"But you…" Connor looks at Haytham, at his tiny, wrong body, and doesn't finish his sentence. "Oh."

"Why are you here?" Haytham demands. "Are you dead too?"

"No," Connor says. "Sit down."

"Why?"

"I have to explain something, and it might take a while to get through."

"But-"

"_Especially_ if you keep interrupting."

He crosses his arms. "You can't tell me what to do!" he snaps, stomping a foot. "I'm not a child!"

Connor looks him over disbelievingly. "Really? Because you look like a child. You sound like a child. You're certainly acting like a child."

Haytham just barely manages to keep himself from pouting, and a jolt of terror hits him as he realizes just how difficult that is to do. He's _not _a child, but his mind and his body want to be one.

"Sit down," Connor says, and this time Haytham swallows his pride and does as he's told.

Connor settles himself crosslegged on the ground in front of Haytham, and stares at him with intense eyes that make Haytham very uncomfortable. "This is my fault," he says. "I'm the reason we're all here."

"I don't understand."

"Many years after your death, I… found an apple of Eden. Well…" He scowls, while Haytham is still reeling from the information. An apple of Eden? That's… wow. "I didn't really find it. Washington had it."

"Oh," Haytham says. "My favorite person."

"I'm not fond of him myself. But the point is…" Haytham watches Connor visibly struggle for the right words. "I was supposed to throw the apple over the side of a ship. We thought the ocean would be as good a place as any to get rid of it."

"Why would you do that?" Haytham demands, voice going high and shrill in outrage. "You can't just throw away one of the most powerful-"

"No," Connor says, and his voice is so sharp, Haytham flinches before he can force himself to stay calm. "It turns out that I can't, because I never actually threw it out. It…" he sighs, and Haytham realizes he's never heard Connor this unsure about anything. "You said yourself that it's powerful. But it _told _me things. Whispered them into my head. It… told me that I could bring you back."

By the time he gets to the end of his explanation, Connor is speaking so slowly, Haytham keeps expecting him to stop altogether. "You wanted me back?"

Connor's jaw works for several seconds. "I made a mistake. That's all I'm going to say."

"Was the mistake killing me, or bringing me back?"

"Yes."

"Fine." He rolls his eyes. "So you brought me back. What about my father?"

"I don't know. I didn't plan on him, I barely know anything about him. Honestly, I just told the apple _yes_, and then… I saw something. Like a vision, only… it probably doesn't matter. Nevermind. But I woke up and found the two of you almost unconscious. I found this place, so I took you back here."

"And where exactly _is _here?"

"A beach somewhere. Not a nice one- small, dark, mostly blocked off by cliffs. Hard to get in or out of, so at least we won't have any unexpected visitors."

"And what do we do?"

"Do?" The question seems to completely surprise Connor, and Haytham watches his expression with vague annoyance. Connor never thinks anything through. He just does things, without any kind of plan, as impulsive as his mother, and now they're trapped in this weird situation, and they're _together_, which is the worst part of all.

"Yes," he snaps. "Do. To fix this, or get back home, or something!"

"There is no more home," Connor interrupts. "You didn't see everything, because you were passed out. But the apple also put us in the future."

"The- but- you're such an idiot!" His head is spinning, he doesn't know what's going on and even if he did know, he would want nothing to do with it.

"Excuse me?"

"You messed up, and everything's wrong, and you don't even have a plan to fix things!"

"Why would you expect me to?

"I don't know! Why would I ever expect you to get anything right?"

I meant why would you expect me to have a plan when we've been here less than a day?"

"Just shut up!" Haytham shouts, and to his surprise, Connor actually goes quiet. He says nothing. Edward gets loud, though, he wakes up at the shout and starts… cooing, or something. Haytham squirms guiltily, and tries to figure out what he's supposed to do.

Connor gets up, and while Haytham doesn't quite get a look at what happens next, it ends up with Edward giggling and poking his tiny fingers into Connor's face. He smiles broadly and Connor looks surprised for a second, and then grins back. Haytham hasn't ever seen Connor smile, and he isn't ready for the jealous pang in his chest. He lays down on the ground where he'd woken up, curls up, closes his eyes, and pretends to be asleep.

None of this is okay. His father is an infant, his son is older than him, he's tiny, he should be dead (apparently- he still can't _remember _the actual dying part). And this is the future? What does that mean, a year, five, ten? He'd said 'there is no home anymore', and that kind of implies a long time. What year is it?

He feels tears and blames it on being a child. Children cry, and they whine, and… he has no idea what children do. He's never had to deal with them, and he can barely remember being a child himself.

Based on his current behavior, though, apparently children curl up in bed (or on the ground, in this case) and mope.

Connor's heavy footsteps come back toward him a few minutes later, so Haytham squeezes his eyes shut and works very hard at pretending to be asleep. He's just started to get irritated at how long Connor is apparently going to stand there and do nothing, when he feels something soft and warm against his chest.

Connor walks softly away, and Haytham opens his eyes just a crack. Edward smiles up at him from his cocoon of blankets, and Haytham starts to feel the heavy feelings in his chest start to melt away a little. Maybe this isn't all bad.

-/-

He's much calmer when he wakes up again, at least until he looks around and sees that Connor is gone. "Good riddance," he mumbles without conviction, because he doesn't know what to do on his own.

There's a note on the door- _be back soon_

And he stares at the note, trying to figure out if he wants it to be a lie. Edward is awake but happy, cooing to himself in the corner, so Haytham gathers the baby in his arms and goes exploring.

His first step out of the shack are the hardest. He's expecting something wildly unfamiliar, something that screams _future_, but what he actually sees is disappointingly mundane.

It's midmorning, but the sunlight here is weak and dim, blocked by the sheer cliffs inland. When Haytham turns to study them more closely, it takes him several long minutes to find the narrow gap in the rock that he assumes must lead inland.

He decides not to risk that passage at the moment, turning to examine the rest of the scene. It's a small beach, as Connor had said, covered in sharp rocks, and bordered by water that's surprisingly warm when he walks over and puts his toes in. It smells of salt, and the dark water turns red around his bare feet- that's how he realizes the bottoms of his feet have been cut open between here and the shack.

He wiggles his toes miserably, upset as much by the tiny, pudgy toes as he is by the blood swirling in the water around them.

"Here," Haytham says, shifting Edward so that he's looking out toward the horizon. "You like this… stuff, don't you? Oceans and ships, and…" he sighs. "Not that I found any of that out from you, of course. I had to find everything out second hand. My mentors, my friends, they spoke of you like a madman or a monster. A pirate and a lunatic at best, and a bastard at worst."

Edward's arm flails through the air and smacks Haytham on the side of the head. He giggles, but Haytham shakes his head and sighs. "I don't know. Maybe they were right."

"About what?"

He almost jumps out of his skin when Connor comes up behind him, but manages to channel it into a scowl instead. "Doesn't matter."

"Fine."

"So. Where did you go?"

"To get supplies. Food. Information." A bag drops onto the rocks next to Haytham. "Clothes. Put these on, or at least the shoes."

"Don't tell me what to do!"

Connor glares at him for exactly thirty seconds. Then he scoops Edward away from Haytham, cradling him securely in one arm.

"Hey!" Haytham protests, reaching fruitlessly after Edward. "Stop it, what are you doing?!"

Connor's answer is to pick Haytham up with his other arm, heaving him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He fights and squirms, but Connor had been taller and broader than Haytham even when he had been adult sized, and right now he has no chance at all.

He's half sobbing by the time Connor puts him back down on the floor in one corner of the shack, and doesn't even move when Connor walks across the room to deposit Edward in the opposite corner. "I hate you!" he says, around the tears, and the gross gasping for air. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!"

Connor comes back, settling himself with infuriating patience, cross legged on the floor in front of Haytham. "Are you done?"

"No! Go away!"

"I can't. You're worrying me."

Which is not at all what Haytham was expecting. Worrying implies that Connor cares. He shouldn't care, it's so much easier when he just… doesn't care. Haytham doesn't care about him (does he?).

"I don't want you to worry," he mumbles at last.

"Then calm down. Be reasonable."

He shakes his head. "... I can't."

"Then you need to let me help you. One or the other."

"Why do you even care?" he asks. "Why don't you just leave?" These words are hard to force out, like fighting a team of charging horses.

Connor, at least, seems to be struggling just as much. "Because," he says at last. "It's 2013. And that's very far from home."

"Two thousand…"

"And thirteen."

"...oh." The world is never, ever, going to make sense again. It will never be alright. And he, Connor, and Edward have nothing familiar left in the world but each other.

**-/-**

**Haytham might just be my favorite right now**


	21. (Part 4)Field Trip

Several months on, they have a table. They also have chairs, an assortment of blankets, food, water, and a roof that doesn't leak when it rains. Connor had made the repairs himself, along with the new furniture. It isn't a particular skill of Connor's, but he's done some building before. On the homestead, when someone new moved in and they needed a place to live, the building would often turn into a community project, with anyone available pitching in to help. Those times make up some of his best memories, and so doing the work here cheers him up a little.

But with all the new additions to the shack- not nearly as frail and pathetic as it had been when they first arrived- the one 's most concerned with at the moment is the table. It's nearly dusk, so the inside of the hut is lit by flickering candles, the biggest of which is set on said table about a foot from Haytham's elbow.

The boy's face is pressed against his hand, eyes half closed as he struggles to stay awake. Connor watches, trying hard to keep the smile from his face. Haytham's head keeps slipping off his hands, so that he half falls forward toward the table, which makes him jerk awake. At least for the next few minutes. Then his head starts to nod again, and he props it up on his hand, only for the whole cycle to repeat itself all over again.

"You can go to bed if you're tired," he reminds Haytham.

The boy gives him a look that would have been absolutely venomous, if not for the childish roundness of his features and the way his eyes are only half open. Connor smiles, just a fraction.

"I'm _not _tired," Haytham insists. He rubs at his eyes with the fist of one hand. "It's not even dark yet."

"Almost," Connor says gently. This is a conversation the two of them have on a fairly regular basis, and he knows more or less how this one will go. Haytham is constantly overestimating his body's ability to keep going as long as he wants it to. Eventually, his body will give out entirely, and he'll pass out on the table. It's only a matter of time, and then Connor will pick him up and carry him to the pile of blankets (in the corner, near Edward and as far from Connor as possible) to sleep.

And for a few moments, when Haytham's face is made smooth by sleep, Connor _always _forgets that this boy is no innocent. He's a full grown man, a templar, and Connor's father. He's stubborn and superior and awful.

The thoughts inside his head stop abruptly as Haytham's head finally hits the table. The boy gives a soft sigh, and his eyes slide closed for the evening.

Connor gets up slowly, feeling heavy and tired, and walks up close to Haytham. Sits down at his side. The boy breathes evenly, light and slow, chest rising and falling in a soothing rhythm. He sounds like a normal little boy when he's asleep like this. Connor reaches a hand out, running it gently through Haytham's hair. It's long and sticky from the day's heat, but soft too, and for just a second, Connor closes his eyes, and allows himself to pretend…

"_Mother says we are to go across the ocean."_

But he is thinking of another time and another place. Connor shakes his head and picks Haytham up to carry him to bed. Edward is already asleep, and (thankfully) starting to sleep through the night. It looks like the hut will be quiet until morning.

-/-

He's wrong. Sometime just after midnight, Haytham shouts out in his sleep, terrified screams that startle Connor out of a dead sleep. He's on his feet and reaching for a weapon before his mind is awake enough to look around and realize there is no threat.

Haytham is still shouting, writhing in his sleep as his face twists into an awful rictus of terror and pain. Connor drops his weapon, falls to his knees, and scoops Haytham into his first. At first, he is met only by wild fists and the occasional kicking foot.

But gradually, Haytham's blows slow and stop. He stops screaming and opens his eyes. Connor is already moving away, ready for Haytham to see him and start fighting to get away again. Haytham surprises him, though. Instead of pushing away from Connor, he throws himself closer. His eyes are wide and terrified and _sad_, and his chest heaves with wet sobbing.

Connor holds him tight, more out of instinct than actual intent to comfort. He strokes Haytham's back gently, murmuring soothing words until Haytham pulls his face out of Connor's chest. "I'm sorry," he says. "I ca-" He takes a deep breath that sends shudders through his whole body. "I can't stop, it's so hard and scary and big. I can't-"

"It's fine," Connor says. He doesn't move away, keeping his arms wrapped around Haytham so the boy can feel something solid. "Don't worry."

"I hate you," Haytham says. His voice is petulant, with absolutely no anger in it at all. "It's not fair!"

"What's not fair?"

He wiggles, but doesn't really try to escape. "I don't want to like you," Haytham whines. "But you're doing it all right! How do you know what to do?" There's an accusation in his voice.

"No reason."

"You've never even had a child! How come you know exactly what to do?"

Under any other circumstances, Connor would not have told him. But he's so harmless right now that Connor can't help but let his guard down. "I had a son," he says.

"Did you?" Haytham asks. He looks absolutely floored. "Really?"

"Yes."

"...had?"

"His mother… my wife… was… before she got pregnant, she was kind. I loved her. I still love her. But when she was pregnant, she got very depressed. Spent the last few months locked in a bedroom with no lights at all. When our son was born, she got worse. She was convinced everything and everyone was trying to hurt him. She wouldn't even let me hold him for months, and it was years before she was fully recovered. But eventually she was normal again.

"And then she said she wanted another child. I argued at first, but she wanted a daughter so badly. And I thought she was over whatever had happened the first time. It turns out she wasn't, and when she got pregnant again she also got sick, even worse than the first time. Three months into the pregnancy, she took our son and left. I never saw either of them again."

"Oh."

He nods. Nothing else to say.

"How old was your son?"

"Eight," Connor says.

"So…" Despite all the evidence to the contrary, Haytham is still a fully grown man. He connects the dots. Quickly. "I'm not him, you know!"

"I know," Connor says, and suddenly the twisted unfairness of having his father in his arms instead of his son is too much. His stomach twists and Connor stands abruptly. Haytham falls to the floor with a thump, and Connor thinks that he of all people doesn't deserve the hurt look that appears suddenly on his face. Haytham is not the victim here. Without another word, Connor turns and leaves the hut.

The air is cool outside, and there is no light besides the stars overhead. Connor hadn't thought to put on shoes, and the rocks on the beach _suck_.

His smile in response to this thought makes his face even more grim. It's hard not to pick up on the words he hears every time he leaves the tiny beach. It's harder still to deal with after, the feeling of losing himself through his words. It reminds him unpleasantly of the years after his tribe went west, when he realized he was losing his language because there was no one left to speak it with.

"Um…" He turns around and ses Haytham halfway between him and the hut, holding Edward with the utmost care. "I woke him up. With the screaming. I didn't know what to do."

Connor sighs, and beckons Haytham closer. The boy hands Edward up to him, who shifts his balance a little to get a good grip. Then he hears Haytham take a deep breath, and suddenly he feels a vice like grip around his waist.

"Are you..?" he looks down. "You're hugging me."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I'm sorry."

"I don't want you to be sorry. You weren't there, and you didn't tell her to leave."

"I mean-" Haytham's face is bright red, and his eyes are squeezed tightly closed. "I'm sorry that _I _left."

"You didn't leave. You were never there."

"Then I'm sorry for _that_, alright? I never… my dad died when I was ten. It's- hard." He still isn't looking at Connor, seems to be actively avoiding his eyes.

Connor settles down, crosslegged, on the stony ground. "Losing a father? It never was," he says when Haytham is sitting as well. "I never missed you."

"Oh."

"I missed mom. I still miss her. Because she was there, and then she wasn't. Like your father was there for you and then he wasn't. Like…"

"Like what?"

"_Mother says we are to go across the ocean."_

"_Does she now?"_

"_Mm hmm." The boy leans down to pull a rock from the beach. He turns it over in his hands, studying the pattern the light makes on the smooth surface. "Soon, she says."_

_Connor smiles. The expression is loose and easy. "You can't," he says. "I promised to teach you to sail, remember?"_

"_Oh yea!"_

"_Your mother doesn't get to show you the ocean first."_

_He smiles and hugs Connor tight around the neck. It pulls uncomfortably at an old wound on his shoulder, a painful reminder of the last fight with his father. It's so many years old now that it's become a part of him, and he barely notices. He just shifts to one side without saying anything, to ease the pain a little bit._

_His son smells like the sea from where he's been wading, and like tree bark from trying to learn to climb trees earlier in the day. Too high too young, Connor sometimes thinks. Under all of it, there's still the smell of milk and soap, the clean baby smells he hasn't quite managed to outgrow._

"_I love you, daddy."_

"_I love you too." He runs his fingers through his son's soft hair, grateful for the gift of that touch._

"_Daddy?"_

"_What?"_

"_Momma says she's going to have a baby."_

"_She is. You're going to be a brother."_

"_No!" He breaks away and crosses his arms, stomping one foot against the fine sand on the beach. "I don't want a baby!"_

"_It's a good thing, I promise."_

"_But-"_

"_No buts, just listen. This is going to be your little brother or sister. He or she is going to look up to you. That means you have to be there for them all the time, no matter what. Take care of them."_

"_Fine."_

"_Promise?"_

_His smile is a little thing, brief and reluctant but still bright, precious and beautiful like a caged bird in the moment before it gets free and flies. Connor tries to capture that smile in his memory. _"_Double triple forever promise."_

"_Well, I can't argue with that. That kind of promise is serious business." His son nods importantly, although the effect is ruined slightly by the giggle that accompanies it, and Connor gestures him back up toward the house. "Go up to the house then and see if your mother needs help with dinner."_

_He nods and runs up the slope toward home. Connor watches him go, truly happy and savoring the feel of it._

_It's not until later that he realizes he will never see his son again. When he goes up later, and finds the house quiet and cold, that's when he knows._

"Like what?" Haytham repeats, and Connor realizes he's been staring into space.

He takes a deep breath and the words come pouring out. They're not the words he'd meant to say, but it seems there's no stopping them. "She just _left_, and she took him! He was… she- they were the only two people left in the world that I love, and she just- I don't-" He's crying now. It's stupid but he misses them like a gaping wound in his chest. "I never even met my second child."

Haytham stands and somehow he ends up with his arms around Connor, and then Connor is sobbing into his narrow shoulder. Edward works a hand free of his blankets, and wraps the fingers tightly around Connor's thumb.

"Shh…" Haytham says. "It'll be okay."

Finally, Connor calms down. "Sorry."

"It's okay. You helped me first."

"It's that kind of night, I guess."

They pull away a little. Haytham leans against Connor's side. Connor settles Edward between them. "So," he says.

"Yes."

He doesn't know what to say next.

"2013," Haytham says.

"What?"

"Do you think your son… if he had children, would they still be around?"

"No," Connor says. "Because that would be a good thing, and good things don't happen in this family."

Haytham says nothing. It's true. They don't.

-/-

"If this is going to work, you have to really _commit_."

Haytham crosses his arms and fights off the rising annoyance. They've been over this half a dozen times already. "I _know_," he whines.

"Perfect," Connor says. "Act just like that."

"Just like what?"

"Whiny and immature," Connor says, and Haytham catches him actually _smiling_. "No one will ever guess you're a fully grown man."

"Hey!"

"Don't you want to leave?" Connor asks.

"Well- yes, but…"

"Then you need to trust me."

He does, he thinks he does, especially after that night earlier on when both of them had ended up crying on one another's shoulders. They need to stay together, regardless of their past differences. It's funny, how things work out. And he really does want to see more of this twenty first century world. Connor has offered to take him and Edward out for the day, and Haytham needs that right now. He likes the beach, it's a little like home. But… he's kind of getting restless.

"I trust you."

"Then…" Connor makes a face like he can't believe what he's about to say. "Put on your pants already so we can leave."

"I hate these pants."

"They're called jeans, and they'll help you blend in."

"But they're so stupid! They'll make me stick out more!"

"_Trust _me," Connor insists. "Lots of people wear them."

"Fine," Haytham growls, and he puts on the stupid pants. "He's not wearing _jeans_," he says, spitting the word out like it's something dirty, and pointing at Edward. The baby is sprawled on a blanket on the floor of the hut, arms and legs sprawling in every direction, drooling a little onto the side of his face and down to the blanket.

"He's a year old," Connor says. "Diapers are universal and eternal."

"Speaking of which…" Haytham wrinkles his nose. "Your turn."

Eventually, after Connor has changed and cleaned Edward, they manage to get going. Edward is awake by now, cradled up against Connor's shoulder. "He's happy today," Connor remarks as they start walking inland.

"He's always happy," Haytham says. Edward shrieks loudly and starts up a stream of nonsense babbling.

Connor nods. "I wonder if he's okay."

"Why wouldn't he be?"

"I've just never seen a baby this happy all the time. Normally they cry, or at least fuss."

"Was…" He's tried to avoid mentioning Connor's family again. "Your son, was he this happy?"

"Sometimes," Connor says, without looking at Haytham. "Sometimes he screamed for hours and wouldn't stop. Sometimes he fussed all night, sometimes- I remember once, he just sat and stared at his feet for three hours. Frowning like it was the end of the world. We had no idea what was wrong with him, and then he got bored and we decided he must just… really like feet."

"What was your son's name?"

"No," Connor says softly. "Not yet. Not today."

And neither of them speaks again for a while. It takes a long time for them to get away from the beach, through the narrow path in the cliffs, and out of the scraggly patch of trees on the other side. "Holy _shit_," Haytham says, when he gets his first sight of what civilization looks like in the twenty first century.

"Language."

Haytham can't even muster the energy to be annoyed at the reprimand. His whole mind right now is consumed with his first sight of twenty first century life. It's… big. It's busy, it's… it's like nothing he has ever seein before. "Is this a city?"

"This is a very small town," Connor says. "I saw a city, a few weeks ago when I left on a supply run."

"I remember. You were gone for two days."

"Which is why we're staying local today."

Local seems good. Haytham doesn't think he could deal with anything bigger than this so called very small town. "...okay," he says.

Connor takes hold of Haytham's hand and tugs to get him moving. "We're not just going to stand here staring."

"We're going _there_?"

"What did you expect?"

He hasn't been thinking about it, but now that he starts, he definitely wants to see it up close. "Let's go!"

"Follow me," Connor says, and Haytham does. They walk down a rough path on a steep hill, then onto a wide main road made of a hard black substance that's warm when Haytham leans down to touch it.

"What's this stuff?"

Connor only shrugs. "Just keep off it."

"Why?"

Connor reaches out suddenly and pulls Haytham toward him with enough force to hurt. He doesn't have a chance to protest before something huge and metal roars past him, making enough noise for a dozen people.

"Car," Connor says simply.

"What does that mean?"

"That thing is called a car."

"What's it for?"

"Getting places fast."

"Really fast," Haytham agrees, watching another… another car roar past them. Edward peeks over Connor's arm and watches through wide eyes. "No," Haytham tells him. "No way you're riding in one of those."

"It's not that bad," Connor says.

"You've been in one?"

He only smiles and urges Haytham onward. The rest of the day apsses well. The town is an interesting mix of the almost recognizable and the utterly strange. They settle at last in a bookstore. It's the perfect place, just familiar enough to put Haytham at ease, even while the strange subjects make his head spin. Hours pass, and then suddenly Connor appears at his side, pulling him away with fingers that feel like iron brands across his arm.

"Ow!" Haytham yelps, but Connor doesn't relent. His face is stony and impassive, and Haytham suddenly feels afraid at the sight of Connor as he had been before, an enemy…

"Don't," Connor snaps as Haytham starts to squirm.

"What's going on?" Haytham demands. "Why are you mad at me? I didn't do anything!"

Connor doesn't answer until they've ducked out a back door into a deserted side street. Then he turn and crouches down so that they're at the same level. His eyes are intense, focused, and Haytham is really surprised (but maybe he shouldn't be) to realize he doesn't want Connor angry at him. He… likes being friends. "Don't be mad," he whimpers.

Connor shakes his head, one quick back and forth motion. "Not mad," he says. "Someone's coming."

"...what?"

"Look around," Connor says. "Closely."

Haytham hesitates, then glances around. The world seen with eagle vision is not nearly as peaceful as the world without- Haytham sees half a dozen figures glowing red and coming closer. "What do we do?"

"Hold Edward," Connor says. "And stay _down_, okay? Stay out of sight."

Because there's nothing he can do here to help, and they both know that. So he just crouches down with his back to the building, Edward bundled up in his arms. He's small now, too small to fight but just the right size to hide. A pile of boxes waiting for trash collection forms a wall between him and whatever's going on in the rest of the street, the perfect hiding place. For a long minute, nothing happens.

Then all erupts into chaos. Haytham can't see anything from behind the boxes hiding him. But he can hear, shouts and grunts, thumps and the occasional muffled oath. And he can smell blood in the air, thick and heavy and full of horrible memories.

Edward whines in his arms, face twisting up to start crying. "Shh," Haytham whispers. "Not now, not now… they can't find us here, don't start crying now. Shh…"

Edward's breathing has gone ragged and uneven- trying not to cry but still visibly upset. Haytham pulls him closer, clutching him as much for the comfort received as for the comfort he can offer. He remembers the night of his tenth birthday, fighting strange men in the middle of the night to protect his father and mother.

Except last time, he hadn't known enough to realize how helpless he was. This time he knows he is going to die if Connor slips up. And then Edward will die. He is literally, completely, and one hundred percent helpless. He folds himself tighter, and curls his whole body around Edward, offering whatever feeble protection his tiny body can offer.

With his eyes (squeezed tightly) shut, Haytham can only hear (and smell) the fight going on a few yards away. He's shaking, he just wants it to be over. He has been fighting and killing nearly all of his life, but even in the fight that killed him, he had not been so aware of the _terror _of violence as he is now.

When it finally ends, there are tears on Haytham's face although he doesn't remember crying. His muscles are stiff from holding still for so long. Connor comes over at last. And he is covered in blood but there is nothing and no one else in the world he wants to see so badly as he wants to see Connor.

He doesn't throw himself at the man, as he almost wants to. He just kind of sags against him, so that he ends up leaning against Connor's side, face buried against his chest. "Da-" He's almost hyperventilating. "Daddy…"

Some part of his mind sneers at him for the weakness of the word, for the power it gives Connor over him. But he needs what that world represents. Absolute comfort, unfailing love, someone that can make everything magically better…

Connor sighs. "You're confused," he says.

"No," he protests. "I'm- scared."

Connor's face twitches a little, but he shifts a little to get to a more comfortable position. "How's Edward?" he asks.

"Happy," Haytham says. "He almost cried, earlier, but… He's _always _happy."

Connor smiles crookedly down at him. "He is, isn't he? Are we sure he's a Kenway?"

"Connor," Haytham groans. He tries smiling and doesn't quite manage, because Connor is right. Happiness and Kenways do not go together naturally.

"Come on," Connor says, standing and pulling Haytham up as well. "We shouldn't hang around."

He nods, and takes a last look back. There's… a man at the other end of the street. Staring, with a kind of intensity that tells Haytham he is more than just an innocent bystander. And he's smiling in a way that seems distinctly predatory. Haytham almost says something, but then Connor tugs his hand again. "Haytham, come on!"

"But-"

"Come _on__!"_

He glances over at Connor, torn about the idea of leaving when his instincts are still screaming at him that something isn't right here. Then he looks back again to see that the man is gone. "Fine," Haytham mumbles. "Let's go."

**-/-**

**I think (?) most people know that Ubi has kind of implied that Connor's marriage didn't end very well, and normally I ignore that because it kind of sucks. xD But in this case, it kind of fit so I rolled with it and made up some details.**


	22. (Part 4)Failure

It's Lucy's fault they're not in the right place at the right time to meet the new arrivals, at least as far as Juhani is concerned. For once, Lucy doesn't even try to defend herself. In her opinion, it's as much Elina's fault as hers, but this is important enough that Lucy thinks Juhani might actually hurt his daughter. And Lucy isn't that much of a monster- she actually likes Elina.

The girl has never flown before, and right up until the part when she's _not_, Elina is really excited about getting on the plane. She's practically vibrating while Lucy helps her pack, and she chatters excitedly to her father as they drive to the airport. It's only when they get through the international security checkpoint that things change. Something about the officials in their uniforms, or the mandatory searching or something makes her nervous, and when they get through the checkpoint she bolts toward the nearest bathroom.

"I'll bring her back," Lucy says.

Juhani shakes his head. "No. I'll-"

"Look really odd in the woman's bathroom," Lucy says. She keeps her voice as firm as possible. "I'll meet you at the gate. _With _Elina, I promise."

"Fine." He grabs his bag and hers. "Do not be late, Lucy. This is the last flight we can take until tomorrow."

"I know," she says, impatience showing just a little. "I got it, international gravel is a pain, we'll be there before the plane leaves."

"Careful," Juhani snaps. "My patience is running low and my daughter is running away. Fix that."

She takes the warning and scrambles away before he can follow it up with something more violent.

When she gets to the bathroom, though, Elina has already left. Lucy spends a terrifying three minutes searching the bathrooms, and then finally admits to herself that this is a lost cause. Elina must be somewhere else by now, and while this isn't the biggest airport Lucy has ever been in, it's big enough that she doesn't even know where to start looking for Elina.

But it's not like she has any choice in the matter. She has to find Elina, and she has to get the girl back to the gate before the plane starts boarding.

She runs the length of the airport, and only finds Elina after half an hour of fruitless exploration. By then, it's too late. The plane they're supposed to be on is taking off outside the window as Lucy pulls the little girl to her feet, and the only question left is how _much _trouble they're going to be in.

-/-

Juhani has murder in his eyes when he sees Lucy. They're almost glowing red, and Lucy knows for a fact that she's going to be in trouble, and probably beaten as soon as there's no one else around to see.

"What _happened_?" he demands, hissing the words at her through gritted teeth. They hit like weapons, and she tries hard not to flinch.

"I just-"

"You know what time you were supposed to be here! You know we won't be able to get another flight until tomorrow! And you know the consequences of arriving late!"

"I'm sorry!"

"You're sorry, are you? And I bet you have some kind of excuse?"

"Well-"

"Come on then, let's hear it."

She can't explain that Elina ran off before Lucy caught up to her. Not with Juhani standing there, looming over her, looking far more threatening than Lucy has ever seen him. She can't direct that anger onto Elina.

"I thought Elina still looked upset when I found her," Lucy says instead. "So we walked around for a little while, and I sort of lost track of time."

"You are an unimaginably dense little girl," Juhani says. He speaks slowly, as if to make sure Lucy can tell he's choosing each word carefully, to fully communicate just how worthless and stupid he thinks she is.

"I'm sorry," she whispers.

"Not yet you're not."

-/-

Later, though, she _is _sorry. After they catch another plane out of the country. Juhani goes first to wherever it is (Lucy hasn't been allowed that information) his next target is supposed to show up. She is told to take Elina to a nearby hotel, and she makes absolutely sure to follow the instructions to the letter.

He, or she, whoever it is Juhani is going to find, is already gone by the time Juhani gets there. That much is obvious just from the look on his face when he makes it back to the hotel. Lucy starts shaking the moment she sees him, and can't stop even when she sees and sneers.

"Come with me."

"Where are we going?" her voice is quiet, subservient. She hates it. So, so much. And every time she hears that voice coming from her own mouth, she hates herself a little more as well.

"Out."

"Out… where?"

"Out," he growls again, and he nearly wrenches Lucy's arm from her shoulder as he pulls her away.

They walk for a long time, at a harsh pace. Lucy hasn't been allowed to eat in two days, not since she messed up on getting to the gate in time, and her legs are small, and she's tired. Despite herself, she's panting from the effort and almost whining with pain before they've gone more than a few blocks. When the first blow falls through the sky toward her, she's not at all ready for it. The force of his hand against the side of her head makes her legs crumble and fold beneath her, and she cries out against the feel of the concrete on her face as she smacks into the ground.

Juhani shouts at her as he kicks and hits, but he's only half speaking English. Lucy can't really even bring herself to pay attention to the half she can understand, because the pain is taking up all of her attention. She doesn't even try to fight back, at first because she's too shocked, and then because she's in too much pain. And more than that, she's _beaten_. Not just physically, but mentally. Emotionally.

At this moment, she truly believes her life is over. And she truly does not care.

The injuries are bad enough to keep Lucy from remembering much of the trip back after the beating. What little she does remember is a bloody smear of pain, mixed with a kind of tired surprise that he's decided against just leaving her for dead on the streets. Maybe she still has some use. Whatever the reason, she hates him for it. She doesn't want to keep going. She's too tired.

All she wants is to be done with them, and possibly done with everything. She's never liked giving up, but everyone has their limits and she thinks this might be hers. Maybe she just can't take this any longer.

She continues to drift in and out of consciousness for she doesn't know how long. Everything is better when the world goes black and the pain is dulled (never banished) by sleep. But all good things must come to an end. Eventually, the reassuring curtain of nothingness falters and tears.

Lucy wakes in a bedroom she's never seen before, which has been divided unevenly into two parts. She's lying in the smaller half, which is bare apart from the mattress she's been put on top of, and the few odds and ends she's picked up since her deaging. The other half is full of what looks like an explosion of Elina's stuff. It's very pink.

She groans and rolls onto her side because the pain in her back is unbearable. This proves to be a mistake, because as soon as she moves, it feels like there's something sharp stabbing her in the side. Broken rib, probably- she's felt that before, and it's the kind of pain that's hard to forget.

She's starting to think she knows why Juhani kept her alive. There's so much more pain left to feel, and there's no reason to leave her on the street and end all that pain early.

"Lu..?"

Elina is so short that she is barely as tall as the mattress Lucy is curled up on. They're more or less at eye level, so that Lucy has an unobstructed view of her worried expression. It almost makes Lucy want to hit her, or shout, or-

"I'm okay," she lies. "The pain's already getting better, it'll go away soon."

But of course her words do absolutely nothing by way of comfort. Elina knows maybe half a dozen words in English, and honestly most of them have to do with food. She just looks more concerned than before, probably because of the hoarse rattle in Lucy's voice.

"Lu…" Elina leans forward to hug Lucy, who gasps with pain. Elina is light, but she still has enough meat on her bones to make Lucy see stars. She doesn't hear much of what Elina babbles after that, and she doesn't care enough to try and explain. She wedges one arm between the two of them to ease the pressure on her painful bits. She runs the fingers of the other hand through Elina's hair. "Shush," she whispers. "Shh,,,:

And she wonders why, exactly, she is trying to comfort Elina, when she is the one in pieces.

Elina sniffs at last and dries her eyes. She holds up a finger ("wait right there") and runs out of the bedroom. Lucy sighs in relief at being left alone, but her reprieve is only a short lived mercy. Soon enough, Elina comes running back, this time carrying an ice pack in one hand, and a box of band aids in the other.

"No," Lucy protests, but Elina is absolutely determined that she is going to help whether Lucy wants it or not. Only after Lucy has been thoroughly covered in Hello Kitty bandaids does she relent, plant the ice firmly on Lucy's stomach (she cries out at the sudden cold), and leaves the room for good. Lucy flops back, exhausted, too tired to even throw the ice away from her. The cold burns against her skin like fire.

-/-

Her recovery takes a very long time. Lucy spends most of the next month or so stuck in bed and suffering through Elina's ministrations. It's not that Elina is mean, or trying to harm Lucy in any way. She really is remarkably gentle, especially considering who her father is. But she doesn't have any idea how to properly treat someone with Lucy's injuries. She's only four, after all, and Lucy often finds herself undoing whatever Elina has done to her before she can start to actually heal.

It does, however, start to help Lucy figure something out. Something very important to her future health prospects. She realizes eventually that she is only alive because of Elina. Juhani obviously doesn't care whether she lives or dies, but Elina… does. For some reason. And even Lucy's mistake at the airport isn't enough to overrule what Elina wants. Maybe there's some lingering goodwill from Lucy's years of service as a templar and double agent, but it's hard to tell. Mostly, she thinks, Elina is the _real _reason why she's still alive.

At least Juhani seems to have decided she's been punished enough, because there are no more mentions of it as Lucy starts the arduous road to recovery. Everything goes back to (what she has come to accept as) normal, and there are no (more than usual) beatings.

Eventually, she gets up out of bed, and starts walking and working just like she had before. And it's still just as bad as before, and again she starts to long for escape. It just seems even less possible than it had before.

And then something amazing happens. Lucy has no idea how he finds out, but one day Juhani walks into the house with a gleam in his eyes, and announces he knows who it is that's come back with the apple.

"Who is it?" Lucy asks.

"It's none of your business," Juhani says, with just a touch of unappealing smugness. "But to indulge your curiosity a little-" she hates to be indulged, and the bastard must know that by now. "There's three of them. And every single one is worth more than you will ever be."

"Oh." Not what she wants to hear.

"I saw them today," he says, and his tone is almost dreamy. "It was almost an accident, really. Tracked them into a little town, middle of nowhere, and… you should have seen the way he fought. I almost can't believe they're really here."

Lucy nods, still tense. None of this makes any sense.

"And I am going to find them," Juhani adds. There is a curious, devilish light in his eyes that makes Lucy suddenly nervous. Not so much for herself, but for whoever else the apple has brought back. "I am going to bring them here, and…" he trails off, apparently unconcerned about telling Lucy his plans ow. She can't make herself mind much, not when she's too busy being grateful- at least, whatever it is that Juhani is planning, it doesn't involve her.


	23. (Part 4)Capture

After the fight in the street behind the bookstore, Haytham starts to get along better with Connor. The two of them both agree that it would be better if only Connor leaves the beach from now on. If one group of men can come after them, there could be more, and it's senseless to put them in more danger than is absolutely necessary.

But that means Haytham is back to being trapped on the tiny little beach with nothing to do. Except now, he has seen the world outside. Now, he knows what he's missing. For almost a month he mopes around, until Connor finally notices and decides to start bringing things back to him.

Books. Atlases, histories, maps, and sometimes even stories. Occasionally, he brings back some twenty first century gizmos that the two of them pore over in the candlelight of the hut during the evenings, trying to figure out how they work.

His favorite so far is called a storm radio, according to Connor. There's a handle on the side, and when it's turned, music and voices come out. The voices talk about things he doesn't understand at all, and while they are sometimes interesting, Haytham really likes the music more. It's like no music he has ever heard before, and he could listen to it for _hours_.

Some of it is absolutely awful, of course, grating against his ears until he changes the dial or turns the radio off. But some of it is really good! Sometimes, when Connor leaves on supply runs, Haytham turns the music all the way up and dances around the hut as Edward shrieks in laughter. These are the best days, when he is happy and almost forgets, almost (really, _really_) wants things to just stay the way they are. And that's apparently a contagious feeling. Haytham sees Connor relaxing as well when he comes home. He seems to shed years and worry lines, and he smiles. More. A lot.

One night, in early August, Connor goes for a supply run. He is gone most of the following day, until almost dark. Haytham has turned the music up loud, and his dancing (never very skilled), is more ridiculous than usual. Edward smiles up at him from the ground, laughing in an uninhibited manner that lacks any kind of pain or guile.

He's happy. He doesn't hate being a child anymore, he doesn't resent his son for being older and bigger and stronger than he is. He's not worried. He's not scared. It's been a very long time since he didn't have to live with those two emotions sitting on his shoulder and weighing him down.

Connor surprises him when he comes back, grabbing Haytham around the middle and swinging him around in a circle in time with the music. Haytham laughs in delighted surprise and hangs on tight until Connor lets him down again. "You're home!"

"I am," Connor agrees. "And I have a surprise."

"What?"

"We're going out tonight."

"Out?" Haytham asks. "You mean away from the beach? I thought we agreed that was a bad idea."

"We did. But this is a special occasion. I thought the three of us could go out and… spend the night in town."

"What about the men from last time?"

"Well," Connor points out. "They're dead."

"But we don't know who they are or why they came after us," Haytham argues. "There might be more of them." He thinks again of the man he had seen on their first visit. Up until now, he hasn't thought it was important enough to mention the stranger to Connor. Or maybe he just hadn't wanted to make him worry.

"It'll be okay," Connor says. "I'll keep you safe."

"You will?" Haytham asks, surprised. "Do you promise?"

"Of course."

He smiles. Of course. As if, after everything that's happened between them, it's that simple. And then he smiles yet more widely, because… well, maybe it really is that simple. "Okay then," he says. "Let's go."

They get into town just before nine, which Connor declares is 'just in time'. He refuses to explain what they are just in time _for_, however, no matter how many times Haytham asks. It's crowded on the streets tonight, and it seems like everyone is moving in the same direction, out of town toward what turns out to be a disappointingly empty field. Connor sits on the ground with Edward on his lap, but Haytham can't settle. He stays on his feet, bouncing around but never going far. Connor laughs at him, and Haytham says something that makes him laugh even more.

And then… it starts.

For half a terrifying second, he thinks it's gunfire. He startles and jumps, and then looks around, trying to find the source of the sound.

"Haytham-" Connor tugs at his sleeve and points up. "Look."

Haytham tilts his head back just in time to see a jaw dropping explosion of color overhead. His gasp is inaudible among the continuing explosions, and he stumbles backward in surprise. Connor is there to catch him, and Haytham sinks to his knees next to him. "What's going on?" he asks, as all around them, the sky is transformed into something beautiful and otherworldly. "What is it?"

"Fireworks," Connor calls, almost shouting to be heard. There's a smile in his voice. "Surprise!"

"Surprise!" Haytham echoes, laughing.

The explosions last maybe another half an hour, and then Connor leads Haytham and Edward to a nearby hotel. Haytham doesn't ask where he's gotten the money- Connor can be resourceful when he wants to.

"This is an inn?" Haytham gasps when he sees the room. There are two beds, large and soft (and they seem even more so to Haytham, who has spent months on the floor of a hut). And there is so much future (present?) technoledgy here lights that turn on and off at the flick of a switch, and _toilets_, and something that's kind of like a radio but shows pictures too.

"It's nice," Connor agrees. "You should get some sleep."

"So should you," says Haytham. Then he smiles, and Connor smiles back.

-/-

They don't sleep at all that night. Instead, Haytham and Connor spend the hours before dawn learning how to work every strange thing in their hotel room. Edward sleeps, of course, so most of that night is spent with the lights off, crowding together with only inches between them, whispering so they won't wake the sleeping baby.

And then there's a noise from the hall outside, and when Haytham looks over, he can see dim red shapes in eagle vision, moving on the other side of the wall. Enemies. "Connor," he whispers. They're on the third floor. One door, with four- no, five, six- almost a dozen figures swarming the hall on their way to their room. The odds… aren't good. Especially with Haytham and Edward effectively useless in any kind of combat.

And then the plan comes to him, all at once. And it's not a plan that he likes (at all) but it keeps (some of) them safe. Silently, he gets up, pulls Edward off the bed, and hands him to Connor. "There's a balcony," he says. "You can climb down."

"Can you?" Connor takes Edward but doesn't move.

"No."

"I can't carry you both."

"And you can't fight-" he glances toward the door again. There are more red shapes. "Eighteen men with guns while protecting both of us!" The door bursts open suddenly, and the air fills with shouting voices and the high, shrill wailing of Edward's tears. Haytham winces at the sound. Edward never cries.

"Go!" he shouts at Connor. "Go, go, _go_!"

He is aware of men on all sides of him. A part of his brain is shouting at him to move, already, and fight back- but it's useless. He thinks that right now he could just about handle a child, but a lifetime of training and instincts is useless against men that weigh four or five times as much as he does.

Someone kicks him hard and he hits the ground. A heavy boot lands on his back so that no matter how much he struggles, he can't get up. In the end, he turns his head just in time to see Connor disappear out the door to the balcony. And he relaxes, because at least they'll be safe now.

"Go!" a man barks, and Haytham sees several men break away from the main group and hurry out after Connor and Edward.

"They're gone, sir!" one of them calls back. The man that had ordered them to look in the first place growls something unpleasant in a foreign language, and for the first time, he steps into Haytham's field of vision. He is not at all surprised to recognize the men he had caught watching them after Connor fought off the last attack. "Sedate him," the man snaps, and someone grabs Haytham roughly by the upper arm. He struggles, but in only a moment he feels a prick just below his shoulder, and his vision starts to swim. Drugs, he decides, just as the whole world fades to black.

-/-

He wakes a long time later, every bone and muscle in his body aching. He's stiff like he hasn't moved in days. It's dark, and he's tied to a chair. Someone slaps him across the face, as if to wake him. Haytham growls that he's already awake, and tests his binds without any luck.

"We begin," says the person hitting him. It's clearly the same man from the inn, the same man watching them during the first fight.

During the (painful) days and weeks that follow, as Haytham is interrogated (tortured, really), he learns that his captor's name is Juhani Osto Berg. He's a templar, and at first Berg seems to assume this puts them on the same side. He comes to this conclusion despite the torture and the kidnapping, which Haytham is pretty sure makes the older man an idiot.

Haytham makes it as clear as possible that this is not the case. There would have been a time, not so long ago, that he would have agreed. He should be happy to be here, among allies, and away from the man who is technically his killer. Juhani gives him more than one opportunity to get things back to what he calls normal, to claim a place among the modern templars. Juhani, Haytham quickly learns, is obsessed with the history of the templar order, and despite the early scare tactics, he seems to honestly admire Haytham.

Which is weird and kind of confusing.

But the truth is, the man worries him. There's something too cold in his face and in his voice, and besides that, Berg has made it one hundred percent clear that he wants both Connor and Edward dead.

Finally, almost a week after the initial kidnapping (not that it's easy to be certain how much time has passed, locked up in what Haytham has learned is the basement of Berg's house. In Canada. There hadn't even been a Canada when Haytham was first alive), he snaps.

"No," he says.

"No what?" Berg asks.

"No to everything. I do not want to work with you. I do not want to help you kill my father and my son."

"Fine." Berg looks disappointed but not surprised. "You're sure."

"Completely."

"Then you will have to be useful in other ways."

He learns soon enough what this means. Although Berg is usually satisfied with hitting Haytham until he talks (or doesn't), sometimes he needs something more. Once or twice, he uses something in a needle to drug Haytham into unconsciousness, and carries him away to what he assumes is another building entirely.

The first time that happened, Haytham was introduced to something called an animus. Berg tells him that they are interested in his father's memories, and Haytham looks at him like he's crazy. Then, when he's actually plugged into the machine, he understands. And wishes he didn't. He sees things and feels things that are somehow even worse than becoming a child again. But somehow the worst part is knowing that he is giving his father's secrets over to a man that clearly wishes him ill.

Luckily, Berg has other things to worry about, besides Haytham. The visits to the building with the animus in it are few and far between, but they still manage to feel worse than all the interrogation sessions in between, combined. The machine crawls inside his head, makes him question everything, makes him hurt… he does not like the animus.

Besides Berg, the only other person Haytham sees regularly during this time is a girl called Lucy. She is apparently under orders not to speak with him, but sometimes when she brings him food he can delay enough to get her to say something. He likes her much better than the silent men that come and then go on an almost daily basis to ask him questions about his life in the past and the present, and then beat him when he doesn't answer.

So, yes. He likes Lucy the best of all his visitors.

And then one day, to his extreme surprise, she starts talking on her own.

"I'm going to school now," she says. "It was my first day."

"School?" Haytham asks. "For children?" He knows Lucy is in pretty much the same situation as he is, and that she's also older than she looks.

"Yes." She scoffs and crosses her arms. "Elina's starting Kindergarten next year, so of course I get stuck as the guinea pig to make sure the school here is okay."

"So… why are you telling me?"

"Because you won't tell anyone. You never tell anyone anything, no matter how much they torture you."

"Who would I _want _to tell about you going to school?"

"Not that part," she says. "There's more. I saw someone."

"In a school? My, the concept must have changed quite a lot since my time, if seeing people there is unusual."

"Someone… like us."

"Oh." That's different then. "You're sure?"

"Yes. I used to know him. For some reason, he's pretending not to recognize me, but I know it's him."

"That's very interesting," Haytham says. "Tell me more."

"I…" she looks up at the door. "Can't. I shouldn't even be talking to you."

"I forgot. You don't like to think for yourself."

"And you like to antagonize people for no reason." She gathers the remains of his food and walks away without another word.

-/-

He comes to recognize when Lucy wants to talk, and learns to manipulates these opportunities. Lucy is obviously unhappy here, and as trapped in this house as he is. She can't see it, but he's determined to change her mind and open her eyes. Once she's on his side, his options will improve dramatically.

He wants to get out of here.

One night, Haytham has a strange dream that doesn't feel like a dream, and meets a boy called Desmond who claims to be his descendant. He thinks of Connor's missing son, and feels… sad. Lonely. But happy that apparently the Kenway line didn't end with centuries ago.

And the next day, Lucy comes down with her 'I want to talk but I don't know it yet' face on. She's distracted, and just stands in the middle of the room, looking around.

"Is that for me?" he asks, to pull her attention back onto him.

"What?" He watches her gaze snap to him, then drifts to a nearby bloodstain. Evidence of a recent and particularly bas 'interrogation' session.

"The food," he says, a little more impatiently than he's meant to. Then again, he hasn't eaten yet today. Whatever the reason, his tone makes Lucy scowl.

"Yes," she says. "Of course. Who else would it be for?"

He waits in silence until she gives in and slides the food across the floor toward him. Haytham wants to pounce. He doesn't, though, because Lucy will only stay until the food is gone. He needs more time than that.

"Are you going to eat that?"

"Eventually."

"You know I have to stay here and wait for you to finish."

Well, yes. That's kind of the point. "I want to talk."

"I don't."

Liar. He smiles and enjoys the way her face shifts in annoyance.

"Just eat the damn sandwich, Haytham."

"I will."

She watches him not eat it for nearly thirty seconds before the frustration proves to be too much. "Fine," she snaps. "Then say what you want to say and let me leave."

"I've been trying to figure out why you keep coming back," Haytham says. "They keep letting you leave, and you keep coming back."

"I'm not a prisoner."

"That's not true."

It is. Haytham had allowed Connor and Edward to flee, and continues to hide them even now. Lucy, on the other hand, has committed dozens of smaller sins that only add up slowly, over time. Haytham's fall had been dramatic and obvious, and Lucy's rather more muddled, but they are basically the same. And the only difference is Lucy's naivitie.

"At least I've already fallen as far as I can go. You're still walking that line, marking time until you make whatever mistake will get you thrown down here with me. You're as much a prisoner as I am."

"No!"

She almost shouts the protest, and Haytham has to hide a smirk. _Yes_. He's getting to her.

"Was it worth it?"

Protecting his family at the cost of his own freedom? He doesn't hesitate to answer, thinking of that night at the inn. "I would do it again if I could."

"Really?"

"In a heartbeat."

She frowns, and studies him for a long time. "How did we come to be here?" she whispers at last. "And you- I don't understand how come you aren't more upset about this."

He shrugs and finally gives in, reaching for the sandwich. "We're both going to end up in the same place. The only difference is that I'm not ashamed of how I got here."

He cans see her fuming at this. Angry and frustrated and scared, which is more of a reaction than he'd been hoping for. Something must be going on with her, something she obviously doesn't want to share with him. Finally, after what feels like hours, he asks why she hasn't left yet.

"Dunno," she says, without looking at him. "I…"

"You what?"

"Want to leave."

He hides his suddenly pounding heart behind a perfectly still face. "Then go. The door's right at the top of the stairs."

"Not here," she says, like he doesn't already know exactly what she's talking about. "Not like this basement. This whole situation. Juhani. Everything. I want out."

"He'll never let you go."

"I'm not going to give you a choice."

"And I assume by the fact that you're telling me all this, that you're planning to ask for my help." He can tell, just by the way her mouth twists, that she doesn't want to actually come out and ask.

"Yes," she says at last. "Will you?"

"I have been waiting for you to ask since the day we met." He stands, ignoring the way it makes his ankle rub against the chain there. With both of them standing, he and Lucy are nearly the exact same height. For the first time in months, Haytham feels capable of making his own decisions. He doesn't have to look up to talk to Lucy, and it makes him almost feel like an adult. "Where do we start?"

"There's no way we're getting out of here as children," Lucy explains.

"You're implying… what? That you know a way to reverse becoming a child? That we can grow up again?"

"If we use the apples we can. I saw it happen myself, not that long ago. I know where to get hold of one, too."

"Where?"

"That boy at school I told you about. His name's William, and he's like us. And so is his son, Desmond."

He stares at her. He _knows _that name. He'd met a Desmond in his dream the night before, and with the way things are going these days, he feels safe assuming it's the same person. "So?"

"So they have an apple. In their _house_. They're staying with a bunch of assassins a few blocks away, which I'll admit is going to be a problem. I… have some history with them. But I'll make it work. I'll figure out a way to get the apple, and then the two of us can leave."

"Count me in," he says. Because he can't afford to be out of the loop now. It's not just about his own freedom anymore. It sounds like she's planning to put his family in danger, and if that's the case, Haytham wants to be out of here. It doesn't matter that they've never met, because Haytham is finally starting to figure out what family means. Such as, for example, not letting Lucy use them for her own plans.

"You're sure?" she asks. "Because there's no way I'm getting out of here alone. Traveling with one person isn't safe. You need someone to watch your back, and… you're kind of my only choice."

"As you are mine," he says cooly.

"Fair enough. You'll do whatever it takes?"

He nods. "Whatever it takes."

**-/-**

**So, full disclosure: I have a part time job now, and while getting paid is nice, it's also really exhausting. I'm not expecting the next part of this to go up anytime soon, but it will go up (promise).**


	24. (Part 5)Momma's Boy

William doesn't understand Desmond.

He never has, he supposes, but he's only recently started to care, and so it is only now that he realizes just how little his understanding actually covers. Today, for instance. It's Saturday, less than a week after Desmond's release from the hospital, and Desmond has spent the entire morning begging to be allowed out of the house. Shaun tells him no, right off the bat, which William thinks is sensible. Desmond isn't fully recovered yet. He still whieezes and pants when he runs, and shakes sometimes even when he's only sitting still. And yet for some reason, all he wants to do is run and climb and (probably) get himself even more injured in the process. William just doesn't _understand_.

Desmond whines and mopes until around 10:30, when Rebecca wakes up and says she'll take him to the park. William is (justifiably) horrified by this, but she only smiles and tells him that she has her reasons. "Besides," she points out. "Desmond is tougher than you seem to think."

He _used _to be. Now he is too pale, all the time, and fragile in a way that makes William think he'll shatter if he so much as falls over. "You'll watch him, won't you?" he asks. "Really close?"

"If you're that worried, come with me," she says.

And so the three of them end up walking two blocks north to the closest playground. William has seen it a million times but never considered visiting. He isn't good with other kids, and it's hard enough being around them all the time at school. There's no reason he should have to see more of them at other times.

Desmond seems to have no such worries. He pulls at Rebecca's hand along the whole walk to the park, and talks on and on and on about what he wants to do when he gets there. William watches him, trying to understand how he could be so completely normal, even after everything that's happened to him.

When they get to the park, Desmond goes running toward the slides while William sits next to Rebecca on a bench. "You should go play with him," she suggests, but William doesn't even think about it before shaking his head.

"No," he says. "I just wanna watch him." Desmond has already inserted himself into a group of kids that look around the same age. They talk for a little while, then go racing for the monkey bars. William watches as a frenzied game of tag starts up, accompanied by a great deal of shouting and screeching. "He looks so normal," William says, after a moment. "How is he so normal after everything that's happened?"

"Who says he is?" Rebecca asks. "He's trying to be, but look closer."

William frowns, but does so, trying to see Desmond the way Rebecca does. By this point, the boy has made it to the very highest point of the playground. William studies him, taking in the blue jeans (a size or two too big—they keep slipping down so that he has to hike them up every couple of minutes. He does it impatiently, with one hand, eager to get on with whatever is going to happen next). Above that, he wears a hoodie, white, zipped up against the fall chill. For a second, Desmond closes his eyes—standing there, at the highest place he can climb to, face tilted slightly upward, white hood drooping forward to hide his eyes, William thinks… he could be about to jump. To do a leap of faith, like he'd done so many times in the animus. It must be nearly instinct by now.

Desmond goes tense, and he seems to struggle for a second. One hand reaches out, grabbing a metal bar in front of him, as if to anchor him in place.

"Rebecca—" William says, already halfway to his feet.

But then a girl comes running past, tags Desmond, and apparently jolts him out of whatever memory he's half lost himself in. He laughs self consciously, and goes running after her.

"Okay," William says, lowering himself uneasily back onto the bench next to Rebecca. "I see what you mean."

"The animus leaves its mark," Rebecca says. "Always."

"But he's still Desmond," William says, a little uncertainly. "Isn't he?"

"He is," Rebecca says. "Just with little bits of other people thrown in."

"Momma!"

William is startled away from his conversation with Rebecca by Desmond's shout. It's loud enough to be clear even in the general chaos of the playground. William looks up and sees Desmond running across the playground, little bits of woodchips flying under his feet. His hood slips off as he runs, and then he is being swept into the arms of a woman that William has no particular desire to see just now.

He hadn't known what to make of Katherine when he didn't remember who she was. It should be easier, now that he has all his adult memories back, but somehow it only makes everything harder. He doesn't particularly _want_ a wife (he feels too much of a child), but Katherine is nice to him. If she's thrown by all this, she does a very good job of hiding it so far. But it's just—it's so unbearably uncomfortable. He hates seeing her, imagining what she must be thinking as she looks at him, the way she must see him as a _child _(and he is a child, which only makes everything harder).

"Did you know she was coming?" William asks, turning back to Rebecca. There's a glower on his face, he can _feel _it and he doesn't _like _it.

"Of course," Rebecca says. "That's the only reason I agreed to let him come this morning."

"Why didn't you tell me?" William demands. "I don't want to see her. I don't want to be here!"

"William—"

But it's too late, he's already up and running, racing away as fast as he can go.

-/-

There are so many bad things about being little. Like… Desmond can't reach tall shelves. And he has a bedtime. And… okay, so honestly there's not that much he really hates about being small, even if he doesn't want to admit it. It's kind of nice. And maybe the best thing so far is seeing his momma again.

She wraps him up in the biggest, tightest hug Desmond can remember ever having. He feels totally safe, and almost cocooned in her arms. Desmond hugs back, enthusiastically. "I missed you Mommy," he whispers. "I'm sorry I ran away! I wanted to run away from Daddy but I missed you a lot!" He takes a deep breath. "And then Daddy wasn't mean anymore and I don't want to run away and Momma I _missed _you—"

"It's okay, baby," she says, squeezing tighter. He looks up at her face and it's older but it's still the same. Desmond smiles at her.

But then he peeks over her shoulder, just in time to see William run off. Desmond tugs at his momma's sleeve. "Daddy's sad," he tells her. William had asked him not to call him Daddy around anyone else, but he thinks this is okay. Momma's okay. "How do I make him happy again?"

"I don't know," she says. "I haven't seen him really happy since the day you were born."

"He's happy sometimes," Desmond says doubtfully. "But not a lot."

"That's just how he is,' she tells him. "But what about you? Are you happy?"

"Yea."

"Yea?"

"Most of the time," Desmond admits. He doesn't explain about Lucy, or about the dream with Haytham. Those are secrets.

She still notices that something is wrong, and her frown makes it hard for Desmond not to tell her what's going on. "I don't feel good," he says, which is true but not the whole story.

"Rebecca told me you've been in the hospital."

"My insides are too little for my outsides," he explains. "They thought I was gonna die but I didn't. I'm really good at not dying."

"And are you getting better?"

"I…" His smile fades a little. "I'm okay."

But he's never been able to lie to his momma. "Desmond," she says softly. "Tell me what's wrong."

He puts his hands on his chest. "I don't feel good," he says. "Sometimes it hurts. Sometimes it just feels like my whole body is made of Kleenex, and I'm gonna fall apart."

"What do the doctors say?"

"Take my medicine and don't run around too much," he says wearily.

"And are you taking your medicine?"

He makes a face and nods. Half a dozen different kinds every morning.

"Are you running around too much?"

"I _hate _sitting still!" he protests. "I want play!" His eyes start to water a little, and he wipes them angrily with his fists. "Momma, I didn't _get _to play last time—"

She hugs him again and Desmond lets her. He doesn't want to be sick. He wants to just be normal for once in his life, he wants his momma to stay here forever and make things okay again. Only… he already knows she won't. "When do you have to go?" he asks.

"Soon. Half an hour."

He curls his fingers into her shirt. "No," he whimpers, and oops he's crying now. "No, momma, no!"

"Desmond…" She guides him gently but firmly away from her, tilting his head up so he has no choice but to look her in the eye. "You were a very strong person when you were grown up. I know because you saved the whole world, but also because you saved your father—and that might just be even more difficult."

"I'm not big anymore, though."

"You have a big heart," she says. "That's how I know you'll be brave, and I know you'll be okay."

"Okay," Desmond says. He lets the subject drop, and tries not to waste their last half hour complaining anymore. But when his momma says goodbye and hands him back to Rebecca, when she's _gone_…

"…but my heart is too little now," he whispers, as it beats and flutters uncertainly inside his chest. Desmond holds Rebecca's hand all the way home, and he doesn't feel brave at all.

-/-

Desmond skips dinner that night. He says he doesn't feel well, and since this happens at least once a week, no one questions him. But when William goes back to his own room after dinner, he finds Desmond curled up on the bed.

The younger boy's eyes flick toward William when the door opens, then awaya gain. William sighs and climbs onto the bed too. After about thirty seconds, Desmond sits up and curls into William's side. "Momma didn't want to stay with me," he says.

"She has important work to do," William says.

"I wanna be important. Why aren't I important?"

He wants to tell Desmond that he is very important, but doesn't think that would mean much in the face of his mother's abandonment. And William can't tell Desmond that she doesn't matter, or her opinion doesn't matter, because as happy as _he _is to have Katherine gone, Desmond still needs his mother. So William changes the subject completely.

"I talked to Lucy about Haytham Kenway," he says. Desmond looks up, suddenly interested, and William spares a second to feel horrible for manipulating Desmond and his childishly short attention span. But it's not his fault Desmond is such an easy to distract toddler.

"When?"

"About a week ago."

"And you didn't _tell _me?"

"Because she didn't really tell me anything," William says calmly. "She reacted to his name, so I know he must mean something to her, but she wouldn't tell me how she's heard of him."

"That's still good though, right? He's here somewhere, I know he is! And now you believe me, because Lucy knows him and she shouldn't—you do believe me, don't you?" When William doesn't immediately reply, Desmond frowns again. "You _don't_?"

"It does sound… um…"

"Crazy?"

"Well, yea."

"Do you think I'm crazy?"

"I think… you were kidnapped, put in an animus for three months, nearly killed, turned into an infant, then aged into a toddler and almost killed _again _in the process. You're allowed to be a little bit crazy."

Desmond looks at him like he's the most disappointing person on the face of the planet, and runs out of the room. "Wait," William calls after him, hurrying to the door. "Desmond!"

But the hallway is already empty by the time William gets there, and he can't fool himself into thinking that Desmond wants him to follow right now. Left with no other choice, William goes back into his room and throws himself moodily onto his bed. His mind is full of unhappy, buzzing thoughts. Does he actually think Desmond is crazy/ It's definitely possible—Desmond's poor brain has been through so much it's a miracle he's not drooling in a strait jacket in a padded room somewhere. And… well, he's been crazy before. He's suffered from the bleeding effect.

William hadn't been around, before Desmond killed Lucy and spent a week plugged into the animus without a break. But he'd heard the stories, about the lapses where Desmond had seen things that weren't there, or spoken to people that were long dead, or had dreams of his ancestors that made him scream out in his sleep—

The dream with Haytham sounds a lot like those bleeding effect dreams, and insanity isn't completely off the table as far as William is concerned. He feels like a failure. He should be able to protect Desmond, but there's nothing he can do against the demons in the boy's head.

William drops into an unhappy, accidental sleep. It's better than being awake though, stuck thinking about things that hurt.

-/-

Rebecca is woken out of a dead sleep sometime after midnight that night. She opens her eyes and squints into the darkness of her room, confused as to why she would have woken so suddenly, and why she would have the weird feeling that someone is in the room with her. Shaun is still asleep at her back, a reassuring if still new presence. But there is definitely someone else in the room. Eventually, the thought trickles into her mind that she should look down.

Desmond is standing there, eyes wide, one arm wrapped tight around his shaking chest.

"What's wrong?" Rebecca asks.

"Nothing…"

"Something."

He makes a face. "I'm going back to bed."

Rebecca sits up and gently grabs his shoulder as he tries to go. "Do you want to come in?"

"Um…"

"It's okay if you do."

He nods, his face bright red. "I'm sorry."

He's so small that he fits in bed without Rebecca moving at all. He burrows his way under the covers, clinging to her like he's too afraid to be alone. "Seriously, Desmond." she prods. "What's going on? Not that I mind, but normally when you can't sleep, you go to bed with William."

"He said I'm crazy." Desmond wipes a hand across his face, and Rebecca could have sworn she heard a sniff. It's a pitiful sight, and Rebecca would have to have been made of stone to ignore it. She's not, especially when it comes to Desmond. Shaun keeps teasing her for getting too attached to the kid Desmond (sort of) is these days. It's hard to take him seriously though, when he keeps doing the same thing with William. "Come here, Des," she says, and he somehow curls in even closer.

"Did you like seeing your mom today?" she asks, trying to get his attention off William.

"Yea, I guess."

"Just guess?"

"I wanted her to stay," Desmond says after a pause so long Rebecca almost falls asleep again. "I know she's busy, but I don't want her to be."

"She'll come home someday. When it's all over."

"It's never gonna be over," Desmond says. "There's always been a war, even since before Altair, and he was like _forever _ago." He sighs. "He was always so cold, you know?"

"What?"

"I mean I felt cold when I had to be Altair. He's so far away. In time, I guess. Or maybe it was just the dumb Animus at Abstergo. Not like yours."

"Well thanks, I think."

"I just always felt like Altair was so far away when he was in my head. Or… I was in his. Whatever the difference is. But he always felt ages away. Not like Ezio or Connor. They were right next to me all the time, like having someone to lean on."

"But you know they weren't, right? They were all in your head."

"Maybe," Desmond mutters. "But it was good."

"Good?" Rebecca echoes.

Desmond doesn't seem to notice the worried tone in her voice. "Yes," he says, happy now. "Good."

When his breathing evens out and his body relaxes, Rebecca gives a huge sigh. Shaun's arm sneaks around her from behind, and squeezes tight. She hadn't even noticed him waking up, but it's a definite comfort to know he's there. Someone to lean on.

-/-

Desmond has another dream that night, but it's not one with Haytham this time. He's somewhere familiar, somewhere he's been in the animus—an out of the way corner of Davenport homestead Connor had visited often. Desmond only has a second or two to take it in before something bumps into the back of his legs. He hears a thump behind him and turns to see a baby (meaning a kid that looks even littler than him). "Hi," Desmond says, crouching down at once. The boy is thin, with the look of having recently lost more weight than is really healthy. He looks up at Desmond and studies him, eyes wide and bright and blue.

"Careful," says a voice behind Desmond, one that he instantly recognizes as Connor's. It makes something start to squirm around in the bottom of Desmond's stomach. Connor is… he's so… Desmond can remember what it was like to be in the man's head. Connor had been bigger than him even when he was old. And he'd been confident, sure, and determined in ways Desmond had never been able to achieve.

"Why should I be careful?" Desmond asks. He half turns, the baby clinging to his legs. There's Connor, way older than Desmond had expected (a grown up, not little like everyone else seems to be these days), looking larger than life in modern clothes.

"He's not going to let go," Connor says. "And also, if you hurt him, it's on your own head."

"Do you always threaten kids?" Desmond asks, doing his best to look innocent.

"Not actual kids." Connor's voice is calm and even, so much so that Desmond can't even tell if he's going to be angry or kind. "How old are you? And who are you? What do you want?"

"Nothing," Desmond says. "I'm just dreaming."

The baby babbles something and pulls on Desmond's pants so hard they almost come down. "No!" he protests. "Baby, no!" The baby makes a disgruntled noise and falls onto his butt, sucking his thumb.

"You still haven't told me your name," Connor says.

"Desmond. And I'm…" he tries to think how to explain his age. "I should be twenty six?"

"Little old man, huh?"

"I'm not little! Or old."

Connor actually smiles a little. "I'm Connor," he says, and Desmond just barely manages to stop himself from saying 'I know.' "And that's Edward." He points at the baby, who waves by opening and closing his fingers. He doesn't smile, just takes his head and studies Desmond.

"Are you related?" Desmond asks. "You both do the whole not smiling thing."

"We are," Connor says. "But normally he smiles a lot more. Someone important got taken away, and he's a bit upset."

Edward blows a raspberry and frowns at the two of them.

Desmond frowns down at the baby. He doesn't know an Edward from the animus, but he knows Edward is not the name of Connor's father. Connor doesn't have any relatives on his mother's side that would have an English name. So Edward is either related to him through Haytham (not likely, since they'd been enemies—Desmond can't picture Connor looking after someone important to a man he'd once killed). Or—maybe he's Connor's son. "Is he your baby?" he asks.

Connor laughs. Actually laughs. "No."

"Oh."

"He's my grandfather."

Again, no reason Ziio's father would have had an English name. So that means… Haytham. Oh. _His _father.

Connor obviously notices the look of surprise on Desmond's face, because he says, "Is it really that strange for him to be younger than me? You're not the right age either."

"But—no." Desmond shakes his head sharply. Maybe Connor's right. Maybe, at this point, it's really _not _all that surprising. There are more important things to worry about. "Listen! I have a lot of stuff to tell you, and I don't know when one of us is gonna wake up." He wants to tell his ancestor everything, so he does. Everything he knows, anyway, about the apple and dreaming about Haytham, about William and Lucy, and at the end he says—"You have to come see us, okay? All of us weird people, we have to stick together." He knows his address, and he tells Connor before Connor has a chance to object. "Please come?"

"Desmond—"

And then he wakes up.

**-/-**

**It's been more than a year since I last updated this story. I don't have an excuse, I just never really liked the way the next few chapters turned out, and didn't want to post it. Sadly, I can't think of anything better, and I eventually decided I'd rather have something up than nothing at all.**


	25. (Part 5)Uneasy Alliance

Sometimes, the sheer, pointless cruelty of Juhani Osto Berg makes Haytham question every life decision he has ever made. In the past, Hayhtam had always told himself that there's a difference between individual people and the causes they choose to represent. He has fought side by side with some truly terrible people, even called them brothers. They had been templars alongside him, and while they were less than shining examples of humanity, their flaws had never tarnished the order they served in Haytham's mind.

Berg is different. The man is _scum_, despicable in every possible sense of the word. Haytham has suffered at that man's hands. He has been tortured, chained up like an animal, mocked, starved, broken, and ignored. Haytham cannot say for certain that there were no templars in his time that treated people like this, but he doubts that it was ever _quite _this extensive.

Berg continues to question him, and Haytham continues to wonder if he is in some way to blame for what has become of the order. On bad days, he blames himself for allowing the order to continue. This… the order has grown into this, slowly but surely, because it had been allowed to do so. Bit by bit, when little things were allowed, or overlooked, or… or… Haytham doesn't _know_, anymore. All he knows, for rock hard certainty, is that Berg is so… _hard_, so relentlessly and obviously cruel, that it has tarnished Haytham's view of his whole order. It cannot be the same as it used to be. It cannot be something he supports.

The only thing he has left to look forward to is Lucy, and her continuing visits. In the few days since they'd forged their tentative alliance, she's brought him information as well as food and other very welcome supplies. They talk about the state of the world, the details of the templar/assassin war, and anything else she can think of that he might want to know. But Lucy never talks about escape, and that frustrates Haytham. He wants to get out, so desperately it's like a fire inside him.

She's starting to lose hope in him, leaving earlier on every consecutive day. Soon, Haytham is afraid, she will drift away and lose interest in him entirely. If he wants her to retain interest, is up to him to come up with something new. Stupid, but there it is. He can't blame her for the way she seems to be writing him off as hopeless. He's fighting the urge to do the same thing.

Haytham can't physically do much, chained up as he is. He only has words, and no idea which words will be able to convince Lucy to risk her own neck to get him out of here. He worries at the problem for a while, and then makes a drastic decision. He's going to be honest with Lucy, and tell her that he's worried she'll leave. It's not like he has anything to lose.

"I need to get out of this basement if we're going to leave any chance of escaping Berg," he tells Lucy the next time he sees her. "You know more about him than I do. What would make him release me?"

Lucy thinks about it. To his relief, she doesn't dismiss him immediately. "You're not going to like it," she says at last. "But there's only one thing I can think of."

"Am I going to like it less than I like this?" Haytham asks skeptically.

"Maybe. It involves the animus."

"Oh." It is, in fact, possible that any plan involving the animus will be worse than simply being a prisoner in Berg's basement. "Well, let's hear it," he says, sitting down with his back to the wall, arms wrapped around his knees.

Lucy settles down next to him. "Tell me what Berg said to you about the animus."

"Nothing," Haytham says. "One day he drugged me. It was in my food. I passed out, and when I came to I was somewhere else. A little room with nothing in it but an animus. That was all he said, just—this is an animus, get in."

"It's a machine for viewing an ancestor's memories," Lucy explains.

"Any ancestor? Berg only ever seems interested in my father."

"He's probably got his reasons," Lucy says. "Not that he'd tell either of us. But yes, any ancestor. And sometimes—usually, actually—enough of the animus starts to trick your mind into believing things that aren't true. Eventually, it starts to lose track of what actually belongs to your life, and what memories belong to your ancestors. It's called the bleeding effect."

"It makes you mad?"

"Yes."

"He definitely did not mention that," Haytham says. "how long does it take?"

"Depends on the person, the ancestors, the frequency and duration of use, the version of the animus being used…"

"So it's unpredictable and terrible and inevitable," Haytham grumbles.

"And the answer to our problem, if we're lucky," Lucy says. Haytham frowns, as a creeping feeling of foreboding wormed its way through his mind. He doesn't like this at all. "It's only a matter of time before berg brings you back to the animus. When that happens, we need to induce the bleeding effect."

"What? No!" Haytham scoots away from her, chains scraping along the ground behind him. "You just finished telling me how awful this thing is, we can't—"

"The only time you're allowed out of this basement is when you're put in the animus. It's our only window for a potential rescue."

"I don't know if I'd rather be crazy than a prisoner."

"He'll throw you away when he sees you start bleeding," Lucy says. "You won't be of any use to him after that, so he'll try to kill you—"

"Oh, yes," Haytham says, voice rising in a shrill way he doesn't like. "Perfect!"

"And that's when we run. Berg always asks me to come with him when you're in the animus. I'm a decent technician, probably better than almost anyone else he has the option of dealing with. I always tell him no and he hasn't started pushing yet. Probably because he knows I could sabotage the whole thing before he could stop me, if I wanted. But next time, I'll say yes. And when you're plugged in, I can trigger… there's a kind of scan setting. It's used on new subjects to find a particular ancestor or period in history. If I speed that up, it will overload you brain and trigger a bleed."

"And then?"

"Berg realizes you're not useful to him anymore. He loses interest, tells me to kill you, and leaves. We run."

"Except I'll be crazy. Will I even be able to run?"

"You'll just have to trust me to get you going in the right direction."

"And then?" Haytham says softly. "When it's over, and I'm _still _a madman?"

"We fix you."

"Really?"

"Well… maybe."

It's a choice between one type of horror and another. Haytham nods miserably, because at least it's doing _something_. Lucy leans over to put her arm around his shoulders. He lets her, because today is a dark day, just like all the days before, and undoubtedly many of the days still to come. And the two of them are very small, fighting a very large battle that's not fair, not fair, _not fair_.

-/-

Desmond has stopped trying to wake up early. It just makes him sleepy, which in turn makes him cranky, which makes Shaun insist he needs a nap and he doesn't _like _naps. They're boring. And anyway, the only good part of waking up so early is seeing William before school, and he doesn't wanna see William anymore. Things should be better than they used to be. William had been nice to him, and then suddenly it turns out he really thinks Desmond is crazy. He'd just been pretending. He'd been _humoring _Desmond.

When he'd said Desmond might be crazy, he'd _meant _it. He's still mean, just less… hitty than he used to be. Which is nice, but… Desmond doesn't want him to be mean _or _hitty.

It turns out that he can only avoid William for so long before people start to notice. Rebecca corners him while William is away at school and everyone has gone out for the day. Desmond gives her a worried look because the expression on her face means they're going to have a serious conversation.

"Desmond—"

He jumps to his feet and makes a run for it. The surprise of his escape attempt gives him a bit of a head start, but he doesn't get very far before Rebecca gets in front of him and cuts him off. Desmond tries to swerve, but there's a reason the doctors keep telling him not to run. His left leg suddenly shakes under him and goes numb; Desmond falls with a whimper and rolls, not quite fast enough to avoid Rebecca.

"Ow!" he whines, but she only shakes her head.

"Well why are you running away, then?"

"I don't wanna talk about it," he mumbles.

"I do."

"Then talk to him."

"I did. He says the two of you don't have a problem."

"He said what?" Desmond growls a little, and doesn't say anything else.

"You know what," Rebecca says after a while. "I have three brothers." Which, as far as Desmond can tell, has absolutely nothing to do with anything. He leans over to rub the feeling back into his still numb leg, and Rebecca just keeps on talking. "Two of them are older than me, one's younger."

"Do you like them?" Desmond asks.

"I do now," Rebecca says. "When we were kids, we did nothing but fight… I thought they must be the most terrible people in the whole world."

"What did you fight about?"

Rebecca laughs. "What _didn't _we fight about?"

"I dunno…"

"It was rhetorical, Des. We fought about everything. Little stuff and big stuff and pretty much all the stuff in between. We argued about favorite colors and who got to sit in the front seat of Dad's truck and where to go for dinner when our parents let us choose."

"Do you still argue?" Desmond asks.

"No."

"What changed?"

"I did," Rebecca says. "I mean—sort of. I joined the assassins."

"And?"

"And, I know talking to my brothers could put them in a lot of danger now," she says. "So I can't. I just think about all the things I want to say to them. How much I miss them, and all the little things that remind me of them. But I can't tell them any of those things. So what I'm saying is—don't take William for granted. You're lucky to have him, even if you're arguing."

Desmond isn't _actually_ a child. "I get it," he snaps. "Cliché moral message received. But I don't think this is the same situation."

"Well, no," Rebecca says. "I don't think anyone is in a situation like yours." She laughs, and Desmond thinks that sure, _she _can afford to do that, because she doesn't have to deal with William, or with Haytham and Connor and Edward.

Which makes him think. This is kind of a big deal, and honestly they could use some more adult sized people to help them figure out exactly what is going on. The only thing that stops Desmond from spilling the whole story is the threat of embarrassment. William already thinks he's crazy, he doesn't need Rebecca to agree with him. He's not crazy, he's _not_. "Do you want me to make up with William?" Desmond asks instead.

"It would be nice."

"But why do _I _have to make up with _him_?" Desmond asks. "It wasn't my fault!"

"Well then why don't you make up with each other," Rebecca says, smiling.

"Because he's being mean," Desmond says. He runs off without saying another word to Rebecca.

-/-

William and Lucy are paired together for their class's field trip to the zoo.

"The buddy system is very important," their teacher announces before they get on the schoolbus. "If we're in a group, and you see that your buddy is missing, tell me or one of the parents right away."

William shoots a look sideways at Lucy, who doesn't look happy at being paired up either. Neither of them complains, though. It wouldn't be worth the effort of explaining to their teacher that they're not friends anymore (or never had been, since their earlier 'friendship' had just been Lucy taking advantage of William's missing memories). William flushes angrily and looks away from her again.

On the bus, they have to sit next to each other. Lucy gets the window seat, and William ignores her while she curls up against the window and watches the road flash past. At the zoo, though, when they unload and start splitting into smaller groups, Lucy grabs his arm and pulls him away from the rest of the class.

"Hey—"

"Shut up!" she hisses, and won't say anything else until they're out of sight and earshot of the rest of the class. Then she lets go of him and steps back, crossing her arms. "I can't stand another second of being around those children," Lucy says. "I imagine you feel much the same."

"I guess," William admits. "I wouldn't _mind _a break."

"We're partners," Lucy says. "_Buddies_. So as llong as both of us stay away from the rest of the group, I doubt anyone will notice we're not there."

"I guess."

"So do you agree?" He nods, and she points up at a sign nearby. "Let's go see the penguins, then."

"Penguins?"

"Sure, penguins. We're in a zoo, aren't we? What did you think we were going to do?"

He shrugs. "It's just weird that you and me are going to look at _penguins_, of all things. I mean—a year ago, that would have been ridiculous."

"A lot of things that are happening these days would have been ridiculous a year ago."

"I guess."

"So—" She points at the sign again. "Penguins?"

They start walking, and soon enough come to the building that houses the penguins. Inside, it's dimly lit, and the sound of splashing water echoes from somewhere farther down the hall. "This is kind of creepy," William whispers.

"Scared, Miles?"

He stiffens, both hurt and offended. "No way!"

"Then come on!"

He hears her footsteps running away from him, and wishes he had Desmond's eagle vision. It's not well lit in here. Lacking that, he takes a deep breath and follows her as best he can.

The two of them pass through a set of doors, and into a room that looks like an aquarium. Tanks full of fish line the walls, each one backlit so that the fish inside are more clearly visible. At least that explains the darkness, even if William still doesn't trust it.

(He's definitely not scared, though. Cautious, maybe, but _not _scared)

"No penguins in here," Lucy says, and for a second the honest disappointment on her face makes her look like an actual child. "Onward we go."

William trails along after her, out of the fish room and into the next.

"Boo!"

He shouts in surprise and jumps backward so that the back of his head smacks into the wall. Lucy, no more than a dim shape in front of him in the semidark room, is doubled over and breathless with laughter. Her giggling is like a sharp spike being pounded into the tender part of his skull, and William pushes at her.

"Hey," she says. "Come on, it was just a joke—"

But jokes are funny, and William's not laughing. He pushes again, and she hits him—and that's it, that's the last point where they make any attempt at civility. William hits Lucy because he is angry and embarrassed, and because she's hitting him now, too. She half trips, stumbling into him, and they tumble backward together through the next set of doors and onto the hard, concrete floor on the other side.

This room, finally, is lit. Not more brightly than usual, but after being in the almost dark for the past several minutes, William finds himself momentarily stunned. Lucy freezes as well, pinned beneath William on the ground, one arm pulled over her head so that her shirt rides up on that side. William's eyes drift down, then go narrow.

"These are old," he says, pointing to the dark bruising there. She starts squirming under him, but William completely ignores her. "I didn't just do that."

"No," Lucy snaps. "You're not the only jerk that knocks me around, okay? You're not special, you're not unique."

He doesn't think much about Lucy's life, except for how it directly affects him. But ages ago, when he had still thought she was an ordinary kid, she'd told him that her dad sometimes hit her. Now that he knows better, now that he knows who she is, this is the first time William's really thought about where her bruises actually come from.

"Sorry." He moves away from her, suddenly ashamed, and she turns angry.

"Don't you dare pity me," she warns. "Don't you _dare_."

"Who did that?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Look, Lucy, I—shouldn't have hit you. That was wrong of me."

"Shut up," Lucy mumbles, not looking at him.

"No," William says. "I didn't realize—I was thinking like a kid. I was just… But a grown up hit you?"

She scoffs and rolls her eyes, but also looks a little like she's trying not to cry.

"You're in the same boat as me and Desmond," William says. We can't help the fact that we're all kind of stuck like this. We have the same problems, and if things get worse there's no one else in the world that understands."

"So you're saying… what, you're saying that if I had a problem, you'd _help _me?"

He doesn't giver her an immediate answer, because he can tell she wouldn't believe a knee jerk response. But after what feels like a suitable amount of time, he looks at her and nods. "If I could, I would."

She lets out a long breath, and looks away from him, at the penguins. "Good. Because I have a problem."

Before William can answer, they hear a roar of childish voices coming closer, down the hall toward them. "Two problems," he corrects, pulling on Lucy's hand to get her moving. "That sounds like the rest of the class."

They make it all the way to the next door when Lucy (glancing back over her shoulder) suddenly shrieks in laughter. William follows her gaze, just in time to see the penguins they'd left behind swarming around their harried looking teacher. Luckily, she's too distracted by the birds to notice the two of them running away, giggling like a pair of mad things.

-/-

They find an out of the way clearing, next to a lake that's been set up with picnic tables and some spotty attempts at landscaping. They avoid the picnic table and the patchwork of stains covering it. Instead, they sit on the ground with their backs against a large statue of a camel.

"So tell me about your problem," William says, and Lucy hugs herself like she's cold, even though she can't possibly be. It's warm out.

"Can I really trust you?"

"Yea, sure."

She sighs. "Like you'd tell me anything else."

"Listen, if you don't want to tell me—"

"I'm with the templars. Templar. Just one of them, Juhani Otso Berg. He's my problem."

"I've heard of him," William says.

"He's…" William waits as Lucy visibly struggles with the right word to pick. Eventually, he gets impatient, and tries to help.

"Is he the one that hit you?"

She nods. "And I have to keep going back."

"Why?"

"Because if I run, they'll find me, and things will get worse. They'll drag me back and lock me up. If I go back on my own, it's not so bad. I have a little bit more freedom. It's not as bad, it's… it's _not_."

"It's not?" William presses gently. "Really?"

She looks down and swallows. "Alright. So maybe it is."

"So what are you going to do?"

"I have plans," she admits, after a pause. "They're just… not very good."

"Tell me?"

When she hesitates, he tries to smile. It feels… odd, to smile at someone that's supposed to be an enemy. But it makes her smile back at him. Crooked, but real. And then, she finally answers.

"Would you help me?" she asks. "Really?"

"If I can. If you don't turn around and betray me." He doesn't know exactly what makes him say that, only… well, he's scared. It's silly, because Lucy is no bigger than he is, but she'd already betrayed the assassins once, and… she wouldn't do it again. Would she?

Lucy nods. "I need to run with Haytham," she says. "We've been talking about it, and I can't leave him behind. So we made this plan—"

"Wait," William interrupts. "Haytham?"

"Kenway," she says. "You know he's with me, don't you? I mean, you asked me about him, so I figured… you already knew."

But William shakes his head. "Desmond told me to ask," he says. "I thought he was bleeding. He went through Haytham's memories in the animus."

"I didn't know that."

"It was after he stabbed you."

Her mouth twists up in distaste, and William catches himself biting back the instinct to apologize.

"Well, the point is, he's not bleeding," Lucy says after a moment. "Haytham's chained up in the basement at home. And he's a kid. He's our age."

"Wow."

And then, finally, she tells him everything, all the way through to her idea of getting Haytham out by getting him into an animus.

"That's a terrible idea," William says, and Lucy scowls at him.

"Do you have a better one?"

He shakes his head. "But—can you still come home with me after school? Is that allowed? Someone there might be able to come up with a better plan."

"Like?"

He fidgets. "Shaun. Rebecca."

Lucy flinches. "No. No, William, they'll hate me, after what I did. I betrayed _them_, remember."

"I won't let them do anything to you," William insists. "I promise."

"Really?"

And even though he doesn't think either of them believes he's really capable of protecting her if it comes right down to it, when William says _yes_, Lucy nods in answer.

"Alright," she says. "I'll come as soon as I can."


	26. (Part 5)Plans

**Hey, just a quick note to all the lovely reviewers of the last couple of chapters. I do have the rest of this written out, so no need to be worried that it won't end. There's one more chapter after this, then a ~1000 word little epilogue. It will not be bringing in other assassins such as Altair or Ezio.**

**-/-**

Desmond is supposed to stay inside when there's no one around to watch him. Because he's _little _now, and he's _sick, _and blah blah blah whatever. But he's also way older than he looks, and he's not stupid! He knows how to take care of hims—_puppy_!

The puppy, when Desmond first spots it, is across the street, curled up on the grass next to the neighbor's driveway. Desmond is not supposed to go over there (another rule), because this is the neighbor that hates them. But, Desmond reasons, when Rebecca told him that rule, she couldn't have known there would be a _puppy_.

And it's crying. Desmond can hear little whining noises even from his side of the street. Without pausing to think it through even another second, he looks both ways and then runs as fast as he can across the street.

The puppy is very, very little, and its eyes are closed. Its sides shake with the effort of whining, and its fur is matted and smelly. "Hi, puppy," Desmond says. He picks it up, cradling it in his arms because maybe it's cold? "Don't be sad." The puppy's whining gets quieter, but it doesn't completely stop.

"Kid! Hey, kid, what are you doing here?"

Desmond turns around when the neighbor starts shouting, but doesn't get up. "Is this your puppy?" he asks instead, holding the trembling little animal up for the man to see.

"What? No, kid, shit—put it down before it bites you. The thing could have rabies or something."

"It doesn't have rabies," Desmond argues, mainly on the basis of he doesn't want the puppy to be sick. "And he's little, you have to help him." He gets up, carefully, and brings the puppy closer to the neighbor. Rupert, Desmond eventually remembers. That's his name.

"No, kid," Rupert says firmly. "Go ask your parents to help."

"They're just gonna get mad at me for leaving the house."

"There you go, then," Rupert says. He sounds exasperated. "Go back inside and stop picking up strange animals."

"No!" Desmond wails. "What if it _dies_?"

"It won't—" The look at each other. Desmond tries hard to look as young as possible. If he has to be four years old, then yea, he's going to take advantage of that as much and as often as he can. Rupert curses in a way that would have taught Desmond several new words if he was actually a child. "Fine," he says. "I'll call my brother."

"How's that gonna help?"

"He's a vet," Rupert explains, and pulls out his phone to make his call. After that, since Desmond still refuses to leave the puppy, they sit outside together with the puppy between them. When the brother shows up half an hour later, he's much chattier. He asks Desmond friendly questions and checks the puppy over thoroughly. His professional manner satisfies Desmond, and the puppy doesn't seem to mind the attention.

"Alright," the brother says at last. "It looks like this little guy is just missing his mother. He's a bit too young to be out in the big, bad world by himself."

"Can you help him?" Desmond asks.

"Oh yes," the brother says confidentally. "I'll take him back to my clinic and give him some attention. He'll be fine." He pats Desmond on the head, which feels weird. "You did a good job, little guy."

"Thank you," Desmond chirps. Then he looks at Rupert. "Thank you, too."

"I didn't really—"

Desmond hugs her. "Well, okay. I guess you're welcome." The three of them look down the street toward a sudden, loud, squealing sound of a breaking schoolbus. Kids start piling out of it, and Desmond runs toward them. "I wanna go see my d—brother!" He shouts. "Bye!"

Desmond isn't even thinking about his recent argument with William as he runs toward them. He just finds the bigger boy where he's standing on the sidewalk, and crash/hugs him. "I saved a puppy!" he announces. "it was going to die, but I found it and now it's at the vet and it's gonna be okay! Only don't tell Shaun and 'Becca cuz I'm not supposed to leave the house. How was the zoo?"

"Um…"

"Hey Desmond," someone else says from behind him, and Desmond turns to see Lucy standing there. Lucy.

"Oh," he says.

"You're… not a baby anymore," Lucy says. "Congratulations."

Desmond frowns at her. "What are you doing here?" He doesn't give her a chance to answer, but twists his whole body around to look at William. "What is she _doing _here?"

"Desmond…"

"Da—" He stops, swallowing the protest back. For several long moments, as the bus pulls away and the other kids scatter down the street toward their own houses, Desmond still says nothing. The problem isn't that he has nothing to say, but rather that he has too much. The angry, bratty words of a child are tripping over his tongue and pushing to get out, but Desmond doesn't want to let them. In this moment, he is very aware that he is only four years old, and that they are both _eight_, which is twice his age and too big, too much. He doesn't want to sound like some little kid right now.

"Desmond?" William prompts, nudging him a little. "You okay?"

"I don't like her!" Desmond blurts, surprised into saying the first, most immature thing that pops into his head.

They both stare at him like he's that stupid little kid he's been trying so hard not to be. "We're going to help her," William says.

"Why?" Desmond demands. "We don't _like _her, Dad! Remember, last time she was here, and she was…" his mind gropes for and fails to find the words to explain how _bad _it is that Lucy's here. "She was bad! She's the _bad_ _guy_!"

"You're the one that stabbed me," Lucy protests.

"Because you're the bad guy!" He stomps his foot and crosses his arms and it's like falling down a slope, so that even though he's trying (so, so) hard to sound mature, everything coming out of his mouth just makes him sound like a whiny baby. He scowls, as much at his own stupid brain as at Lucy and says, "I'm telling."

Desmond gets a second's look at Lucy's startled face before he spins around and takes off toward home. He's halfway there when he hears William shout his name, and Desmond just freezes. He hasn't heard his dad _shout _at him like that since they were back on the farm. Every childish instinct in his body reacts all at once, and Desmond freezes in place like a statue.

Because there is authority in that voice, and anger, and Desmond (but he'd thought himself _past _all that) cowers in the face of it. He looks down at the ground, and shakes when he hears William's footsteps come close.

"Des?" William says.

"…I'm sorry," Desmond whispers. "I won't tell—I'll be good."

"No, Desmond—" But Desmond doesn't trust his apologetic tone. "I didn't mean to…"

"What's going on?" Lucy asks.

Desmond stares at the ground. William stutters, but can't get a full sentence out. Desmond doesn't dare say anything at all. Finally William gives up, reaches for Desmond's hand (and Desmond flinches, but is too scared to pull away), and leads him back toward home. Lucy follows, but Desmond doesn't even care that she's the bad guy right now. His dad's mad at him. _Again._

-/-

Desmond melts away from William as soon as they're back in the house, and William lets him go. There is nothing in the world he wants at this moment as much as he wants to run after Desmond and make things right. But maybe things can't be fixed that easily. William hadn't meant to scare Desmond, but when he'd opened his mouth and shouted, he hadn't been thinking. All he'd been trying to do was stop Desmond from messing things up, and he'd just yelled at him the way he used to, because that was what always worked…

He's a horrible person.

"William," Lucy says urgently. "Come on, already, I need to be home before Berg."

"Sorry," William says. He moves toward the house, walking in front of Lucy the whole way, but before he can even get there, he meets Rebecca. She's in the driveway, climbing out of her car—apparently she's just gotten in.

"Oh," Rebecca says. "William, you're home. Do you know what's wrong with Desmond?"

"Did you see him?"

"He just ran past me. Did you—" And that's when she sees Lucy. Her eyes go wide, and her face drains of all color until she's pale as a ghost. "Lucy."

"Hi."

Such a small word, _hi_. Like maybe she can't think of anything to say, or maybe she's scared. Lucy, scared. William never would have believed it, until just now.

"Sorry," William says. "She needs to tell you something."

"And—and ask for help," Lucy adds, and William thinks yep, she's definitely scared. Suddenly, he feels bad for her.

"Stay exactly where you are," Rebecca orders, already halfway up the driveway, heading for the house. "Or—no, William, take her inside and make sure she stays in the living room. I'm going to call Shaun and get him here, but I'll be right back."

"Well, now I'm worried," Lucy whispers at William as he ushers her into the house. "She's not going for a weapon, is she?"

"She always has a knife with her," William assures Lucy. "If she wanted to stab you, she could have done it already."

"It doesn't make me feel better when you say things like that," Lucy hisses. "Just for the record."

They sit down on opposite ends of the couch and just watch each other for a while. William can distantly hear Rebecca's voice from the basement, trying to track Shaun down. Other than that the house is quiet.

"So…" Lucy fidgets. "Seriously, what's wrong with Desmond?"

"I messed up," William says, after a moment of consideration. "I talked to him the way I used to."

"When you were both adults?"

"When I was," William corrects. "And he was a child, and I was…" he trails off, into a silence that's heavy with unspoken meaning.

"Ah," Lucy says, quietly. "I sort of suspected that had happened."

"You did?"

"I knew him too," she reminds William. "Or I did. For a while. He's messed up."

"He's perfect," William says. Lucy looks at him, pityingly.

-/-

He's scared and angry when he leaves the house for the second time that day. Because he—he'd really thought his daddy loved him now. Aren't they past this? Maybe… Desmond stops halfway down the block. Is he over reacting? Maybe William just made a mistake. They've been getting along lately. Sort of. Except that William had shouted at him. And still thinks he's crazy for dreaming about Haytham (and now Connor, too—Desmond's glad William doesn't know about that). And he'd brought Lucy to the house, even though he has to know Desmond had killed Lucy. So maybe, maybe, maybe…

Desmond doesn't know what to think. He starts walking around again, miserable. Eventually, he leaves the quiet neighborhood behind, and is pleasantly surprised to come across a forest preserve. The sight almost makes him smile. He, as Desmond, has never had much time to spend in nature. But he, as Connor, had been surrounded by forests for much of his life. It had always relaxed Connor to be among the trees, and that preference had been passed onto Desmond through the animus.

But today, Desmond's sense of calm is interrupted by the uneasy feeling that he is being followed. He speeds up a little, feeling a little better. Eventually, he finds an interesting looking tree with branches just the right size for tiny hands. He manages to haul himself into the higher branches, and looks out curiously at the forest below him. Has this always been here? Must have been, forests don't just spring up in random places, but—

Well, he's just glad. That's all. He's glad it's here.

For a while, he just sits there, drinking in the sights of the forest around him. And then his calm is abruptly shattered by the uneasy feeling that he is being watched. He switches to eagle vision, and looks around, down, and then—up.

There's a blob of blue (thank God) right above him, and when Desmond blinks away his eagle vision he's not as surprised as he should be to see Connor, a little above him in the next tree over.

"You're here," Desmond says. He scrambles across the space between his tree and Connor's, then reaches out a trembling hand to feel his ancestor. "You're real."

Connor looks at him like he's crazy, which is… fair. Connor doesn't know as much about Desmond as Desmond knows about Connor. "I had a dream about you," he says, cautiously.

"I know," Desmond says. He cocks his head sideways, still studying Connor. "I had that dream too. And there was a baby."

Connor shifts a little, so that Desmond can see that there is indeed a baby asleep in a sling he's carrying across his body. Somehow, combined with his severely protective expression, it makes Connor look more fearsome, rather than less.

The baby, on the other hand, does not look fearsome at all, with his thumb in his mouth and his face squired out of shape where he's pressed right up against Connor.

Desmond stops looking at the baby and focuses on Connor instead. "What are you doing here?"

Connor smiles a little. "You did ask me to come," he says. "Didn't you?"

"Well—" Yes, but Desmond hadn't expected Connor to actually came. "Because I asked?"

Connor kneels down in front of him, serious but not unkind. "You told me you'd dreamed of Haytham," he says. "I need to find him."

"Why?"

"Because whatever else he might be, he's also my father."

Desmond nods. He understands. "Come home with me? We're assassins. We can help you." And he beams hugely when Connor finally nods. So what if William had brought Lucy home? Even if something in Desmond still feels funny and bad when she's around. Maybe it's okay, because Desmond is bringing Connor home, and that's way better. Also—the baby is cute.

-/-

The house is packed that evening, even after Lucy has gone home to Berg. They don't want to keep her out too late, given what she says will happen to her as punishment if Berg gets home before she does. Shaun had suggested she just stay there permanently, but both Lucy and Connor had vetoed that on the basis of needing to keep an eye on Haytham.

William is surprised either of them even cares. But then, today has lots of surprises.

He finds Desmond almost passed out on the stairs, leaning against the wall. His eyes open a little when William sits down next to him, but he doesn't move apart from a slight frown.

"I'm sorry for yelling at you," William says without preamble.

"I was scared," Desmond says.

William nods. He still has bits and pieces of Desmond's fear in his head, and he knows how bad it must have felt for Desmond to be shouted at again. "Are you still scared?"

"No," Desmond admits. "I was at first, but I liked finding Connor. And you're different now. You're not going to hurt me."

"Definitely not," William says, and hugs him instead. The way Desmond clings to him in response, with his head against William's chest, makes him feel warm and happy in every inch of himself. "I love you, Desmond."

"Love you too, Daddy."

William stands up, pulling Desmond with him. "Time for bed, I think," he says.

"No…" Desmond whines. "I wanna know what everyone's planning! I wanna help Connor get Haytham back, so they can make friends like we did."

"In the morning," William tells him, and Desmond nods tiredly in agreement.

"Becca put my old crib back in my room for Edward," he says. "Can I sleep in your room instead?"

William looks at the hopeful expression on Desmond's face, and can't bring himself to say no.

-/-

Haytham knows at once that Lucy has something to tell him. She looks alive in a way that he has never seen her before, alive and excited and even hopeful. But she never gets the chance to tell him what has her so excited. Almost as soon as she comes home (suspiciously late), Berg arrives as well. And he's excited too, which scares Haytham far more than Lucy's excitement encourages him.

There's only one thing that ever really excites Berg, and that's an animus day. So Haytham doesn't know exactly when it's going to happen, but pretty soon he will be drugged and dragged away from here, to relive more of his father's memories.

He really, really hopes that whatever Lucy has to tell him will be something good. He could use a miracle right about now.

When she creeps downstairs at some dark hour of the night, she's smiling at him, and Haytham almost goes slack with relief. She wouldn't smile if it was bad news.

"What happened today?" Haytham whispers, when they are crouched close together in the darkness. He has to use eagle vision to be able to see Lucy, and even then she's a pale, barely blue shadow just in front of him. Haytham doubts Lucy can see him at all.

"I talked to William at school," Lucy says. "And then I went to see him after. I saw some of the assassins he's staying with, and they're going to help us as much as they can."

"But they're _assassins_," Haytham says glumly. "Why would they help?"

"Your son and father were there," Lucy says. "I know—okay, this is strange, I know your father is a baby, but your son is an adult and he's old enough to do something to get us out of here."

Haytham's breath catches in his throat and he surprised them both by hugging her. That's okay, then. Everything is okay, or at least it will be soon."

"Haytham!" Lucy hisses. "What are you doing?"

"S—sorry."

But he's not sorry. He's happy.

Lucy wiggles out of his hug. "It's just weird," she says. "You don't hug."

"So do I still have to go into the animus?" Haytham asks.

"No. We're working on a new plan."

"What kind?"

"Some kind of snatch in transit," she says.

"I'm always unconscious during the trip to the animus," Haytham protests. "Berg drugs me before we leave, so I won't be able to help out at all."

"Then I guess you'll have to trust the rest of us, won't you?" Lucy asks softly. Haytham knows she won't be able to see him, but he nods anyway.

"Haytham?" Lucy prods.

"Yes," he says. "Yes, I will trust the rest of you. Just… please. Don't leave me on my own."

"I'll still volunteer to come with Berg when he takes you to the animus," Lucy says. "So I'll be with you."

"Promise?"

She puts her hand on his knee and squeezes tightly. "Promise."

He nods again. "Thank you for that, then."


	27. (Part 5)Rescue

Desmond wakes William far earlier than William wants to be awake. He sighs and makes a face at the overenthusiastic toddler currently draped across him.

"Why?" he asks. "Why am I awake? Why are _you _awake?"

"I wanna go talk to Connor and Edward," Desmond says. "Well, not talk to Edward, I guess, but talk _at _him, you know? Cuz he's a baby."

"So go do that," William grumbles. "You don't need me."

"But I want you," Desmond says, putting on a grin of absolute, angelic innocence that William doesn't believe for a second. He believes Desmond's words, though, or at least he wants to. So he lets Desmond grab his arm and drag him down the hall to the room where Connor and Edward are sleeping.

He still has his doubts about this whole early morning wakeup plan, though. "If Connor's sleeping, we're not waking him up," he warns.

"Are you scared of him?" Desmond asks.

"No." Yes.

Desmond just keeps on smiling at him. "It's okay, anyway," he says. "He'll be awake."

"How do you know?"

Desmond looks briefly uncomfortable, his smile dropping uncertainly. "I just remember," he mutters. "I always… I mean, Connor always. He wakes up early."

William squeezes Desmond's hand more tightly, and doesn't push.

Sure enough, Connor is on his feet when they get to Desmond's room, bent over Edward to change what looks like a severely dirtied diaper. Desmond drops William's hand at once, running over to their ancestor and badgering him with half a million questions. William expects Connor to be annoyed, but th eman is patient. When he's done cleaning Edward, he sets the baby down on the floor near Desmond so they can play together. And then he turns his attention over to William.

"So," he says.

William frowns. "So…?"

"I've heard a lot about you," Connor says, and William thinks (without much hope) that it would be nice if Connor had heard good things. He tilts his head up trying to look Connor in the eye. The man is tall by any standards, and certainly when compared to William's current height. He hates being short. It's probably the worst part of being a child, the height. No one takes him seriously.

"Who's been telling you about me?"

"Desmond, some," Connor says. "And Rebecca and Shaun."

"Oh. Did any of them say anything nice?" William asks. "Anything at all?"

Connor chuckles and _almost _smiles, even though it had been a real question and not a joke. "Plenty," he says. "I've heard things are complicated for you now, but… they're certainly no stranger than my own father's circumstances."

"Your father," William echoes. "Haytham. We… are we really going to rescue him now?"

"I sincerely hope so," Connor says, and William sort of looks at him sideways.

"But you killed him," he says. "Why do you want to save him?"

Connor's expression is all serious sadness. "Regret," he says, and William nods. He has plenty of that. He knows how it feels.

"Can I maybe help?"

"You are helping," Connor assures him. "You're the only link we have to Lucy, and she's the only link we have to Haytham."

"Okay," William says, only somewhat satisfied.

"Can I help too?" Desmond pipes up. Connor looks like he very much wants to say no (which is exactly what he _should _say, Desmond is too little to help), but at the last second seems to think of a way to say it nicely.

"You've already helped," he says. "You brought me and Edward here."

"Can I help more?"

Connor hesitates, and William jumps in. "You already saved the whole world," he says. "Let someone else have a turn."

Which makes Desmond laugh, which makes Edward giggle, clapping his hands clumsily together. This distracts Desmond, who doesn't ask again to be allowed to help. Connor gives William a significant look, then slips downstairs while Desmond seems distracted. William can vaguely hear him talking to the others as he slips down to join them.

And that's how things go for much of the next week or so. Sometimes William is involved with the planning, but mostly he, Desmond, and Edward are kept away from the important stuff. William is vaguely aware of it, their secret keeping and their whispering. He should be annoyed, he would have been if he was still an adult, but as a kid it's nice. He doesn't have to be mentor. He doesn't have to be in charge or make the hard decisions.

Maybe everything will be alright without his help.

-/-

Eventually, William sidles up to Lucy before class, and tells her that today is the day.

Her first reaction is to laugh at him.

"What?" he demands. "What's so funny?"

"I don't know. Did you just—" Did you imitate the awkward sideways shuffle William had just executed to get up to her. "What was that? I thought you were supposed to be a master assassin."

"I didn't do that!"

"Yes you did!"

"Didn't!"

"Did!"

"Will you just—" He has this frustrated thing he does with his voice now, where it goes high pitched and kind of squeaky. Lucy thinks it's cute, and wonders when William had (or will?) grow out of it. "Will you just listen?"

"I can't take you seriously when you're bumbling around like that."

"Lucy, _we're going to get you and Haytham away from Berg."_

Her laugh dies immediately."What? Now?"

"Tonight, yes!" He grabs her arm and pulls her a little distance away from the other kids in their class. "Rebecca's managed to hack Abstergo's computers, we know they want to bring Haytham back into the animus tonight. All you have to do is make sure you're with them."

"What happens then?" Lucy asks.

William shruts. "I don't know," he says. "We don't have to know anymore. We're just kids."

"But doesn't that stress you out?" Lucy demands. "Not having control?"

William laughs. "It should, I guess," he says. "But it doesn't. I trust everyone involved." Which is easy for him to say, maybe. He's not the one Berg is going to kill if this doesn't go well.

She's pretty out of it for the rest of the day. It's impossible to focus on school when she might be dying tonight. Either dying or rescued, there's no middle ground. Everything is about to change. Over and over again, the thought sends ice flooding through her veins. She might be dead in twelve hours, and there's nothing she can do about it. William keeps shooting her nervous looks, which Lucy mostly tries to ignore. It's just not helping right now.

When she gets home that afternoon, Berg is already waiting. That's unusual. Haytham is unconscious nearby, probably drugged in preparation for his transportation to the animus. He looks peaceful like this, and for a second she's horribly jealous. At least he won't know anything is wrong until it's all over.

"You're home," Berg says, frowning at Lucy. "Late."

She bites her tongue, and doesn't point out that she'd come home on the schoolbus. She can't exactly make it move faster. "Sorry," she says instead.

"Doesn't matter," Berg says. "I'm taking him into work tonight to run him through the animus. Will you come?"

Lucy faces the floor and tries to look reluctant. Inside, she's squirming with impatience and eager excitement. And _fear_. She's terrified of everything that could go wrong and she tries to channel this into her expression. She nods, and Berg doesn't seem to notice that anything is wrong.

"Good," he says. "It's about time you started pulling your full weight around here."

Lucy bristles, and tries not to show it. "Yes, sir," she says, and glances at Haytham's still form again. "I just thought it was time for a change."

"Good," Berg says again. "Let's go."

So off they go. It takes about half an hour to gather everything they need, to call a babysitter for Elina, and to pack the still sleeping Haytham into the van. Lucy sits next to him, holding his hand. She tells herself that he's out cold, and needs the comfort, but the truth is her hands are shaking badly and holding Haytham keeps it from being noticeable. They drive for about five or ten minutes, and then Berg says, "Shit."

"What's wrong?" Lucy demands. Her heart is in her mouth, and she is afraid.

"Stay here," Berg barks at her, already climbing out of the driver's seat.

"Where are you going?"

"The road's blocked up ahead," Berg says. "And I don't like this area. Feels too much like an ambush. So I'm going to get a closer look."

"Okay…" Lucy whispers. She watches him go, and she prays.

For a long time, nothing happens. Lucy wishes she had a phone, or a watch. It's impossible to know if something has gone wrong, or if her heart pounding nerves are skewing her perception of how long she's been waiting. She can't _do_ anything, and it's terrifying.

And then the back door of the van opens.

And Lucy's heart leaps into her mouth.

And time almost freezes.

She squeezes Haytham so tightly that he stirs and blearily opens his eyes. For a second he looks confused, but then he smiles. "Connor…"

Lucy lets herself breathe again. The assassins are here. They're safe.

Connor reaches out, across Lucy, and picks Haytham up. He holds him close, and Haytham wraps his arms around Connor's neck in response, whimpering quietly. "Come on," Connor says softly. He gestures at Lucy to get up and follow him. She does so, surprised she can move at all on legs that feel as numb as hers do.

"What did you do with Berg?" she whispers. "Is he dead?"

Connor shakes his head. "Just distracted. He's too dangerous to face head on right now, and the rescue is more important. We couldn't let either of you be hurt."

"Good," Lucy says, following Connor quickly and quietly away. "He has a daughter. She'd miss him."

When they're farther away, and Lucy feels safe enough to talk again, she says, "You could have taken him out."

"I thought you didn't want him dead."

"I'm just surprised, is all."

Connor looks at her, but only for a moment. His attention is almost exclusively focused on Haytham. "We could have gotten something wrong, and then one of you would have been hurt. Stay your blade from the flesh of the innocent."

"We're not exactly innocent," Lucy protests. "We've both done things."

"And now you're starting over," Connor says firmly. "As far as I'm concerned, you're innocents."

"Innocent," Lucy echoes, mouthing the word. It's been a long time since she's thought of herself like that.

She walks closer to Connor as he leads them on.

-/-

It had been so easy, Haytham thinks, when he's back in the assassin safehouse, sitting on a couch with Connor on one side and Lucy on the other. He hadn't been expected to do anything but hang onto Connor the whole way home, and let the assassins take care of everything else. Take care of him.

It's… good. Haytham feels good. Safe. Sort of. "Are we leaving?" he asks. "We're still really, really close to Berg." Haytham's voice cracks a little at his ex-captor's name. Connor's hand on his back is more comforting than it should be.

"Soon," one of the assassins says. Haytham thinks her name is Rebecca. "We need to wait a few days, though. Right now Abstergo will be watching the roads too closely."

Haytham nods. It's not the answer he wants, but he's starting to accept the fact that he's not always in control. He'll need to trust the people around him. And (as he's starting to accept), they're all worth trusting. Even the assassins.

Does that make _him _an assassin, now? Haytham doesn't want to leave this place and these people. He feels safe here, among the people that should be his enemies. As for the templars, they… he…

Haytham will never lose the marks on his wrists and ankles where he'd been shackled. One of the assassins, someone with obvious medical training, had examined him just after he returned to the safehouse. He'd held Haytham's arms gently in his hands, studying the place where months of painful chafing have rubbed the skin off completely. He'd looked down at Haytham with genuine sympathy (but not pity) and explained that the scars will never fully heal.

"But it hurts," Haytham had whispered. "A lot."

And apparently it's going to keep hurting, for a good long time.

Haytham can't stop remembering that moment, every time he thinks of the templars. The idea of the order has always given Haytham a sense of _comfort _and _purpose_. Now it brings him nothing but memories of pain and darkness and fear. Berg has stolen one of the few remaining good things in Haytham's world, cut a bloody line across every good memory Haytham has.

… almost every good memory. His life is in pieces and every memory of the templar order has been retroactively ruined by captivity. But here and there, bright spots still shine—his childhood, safe and happy with his father. Rescuing Jenny and taking her home again. Being with Ziio. And… the strange, distant pride for the man he had fathered, who has grown up strong and determined and so very alive, so very much like his mother.

Maybe this time around, Haytham will be able to gather more of this kind of memory, happy experiences with the people he loves. His family. And they're all here, with the assassins, so… so… maybe that's where Haytham needs to be. At least for now. The thought of it sends his whole world crashing down, and suddenly Haytham can't breathe with the strangeness of it all. He twists around and buries his face in Connor's arm. Even after all this time, he still smells of home, of the century they've both come from that is long gone and will never come back.

Connor lets him move closer, and doesn't say anything about it. Haytham is absurdly grateful for his silence.

-/-

Lucy watches Haytham fall asleep against Connor's side, and some part of her is jealous. At least Haytham has family here. Lucy has nothing but enemies, people she was willing to betray and kill a year ago. They won't want her here.

She slips away while everyone else is paying attention to Haytham. Lucy thinks that William might want her here, maybe, but Desmond had run away the last time he saw her, and before that he'd stabbed her. It's too bad. She… she sort of wants to be friends. Or to have friends. With someone. Anyone.

As for the rest of the assassins, Lucy can't imagine a world where they don't hate her, where they could forgive her for turning triple agent. She doesn't even know what she's doing here, really. They'd helped her escape Berg, and Lucy will always be grateful fort that. But it's time to go.

She's headed for the kitchen (because no, actually, she is not above stealing food before going on the run for her life), but she never gets all the way there. Someone grabs her around the middle and lifts her up, ignoring Lucy's wiggling attempts to escape.

"I missed you."

It's Rebecca's voice.

"No you didn't!" Lucy protests. "You didn't, you _can't _have!"

She kicks out backward at Rebecca, hitting her in the stomach hard enough to send them both falling to the ground. "Don't you dare say stuff like that!" she says, her voice going high and shrill. "You—I… don't you _lie _to me!"

"Luce, I'm not lying." Rebecca doesn't seem at all upset by Lucy's outburst. "I did miss you."

"You shouldn't have. You should hate me!"

"I don't want to," Rebecca says. "I want my friend back. The way we used to be, before—"

"Before I betrayed you."

"Well, you're not exactly in a position to do that again," Rebecca says. "Are you?"

"No," Lucy admits, just barely above a whisper.

"So we have another chance. We can be friends."

"No," Lucy says. "I have to go. Even if you really are okay with me being here, no one else is going to be."

"I know Shaun is," Rebecca says. "Haytham seems to like you. And William's your friend, isn't he?"

"That's stupid."

Rebecca doesn't say anything, and eventually Lucy feels her resolve start to crumble, the silence wearing away at it. "Is it really okay if I stay?" she asks. "I don't… where else am I going to go?"

"Please stay," Rebecca says, and Lucy doesn't know she's going to hug Rebecca until all of a sudden she's doing it.

"Thank you, she whispers. "And I'm sorry for… for freaking out on you."

"It's okay," Rebecca promises. "It's been kind of a freaky day. And I've been through worse with William and Desmond."

Lucy grins a little, and tries to imagine what life must have been like in this house over the past few months. It must have been nice, like a real family. Not like the place she and Haytham have been held. I wanna stay," she says. "I don't want to mess everything up again, I… I don't want to be sad and—and scared all the time."

"you don't have to be," Rebecca promises.

Lucy nods. "Can I…" she knows she sounds weak and pathetic. "Can I be happy?"

Rebecca nods. "It's up to you," she says. "If you want to be happy, then you will."

Lucy feels like something inside her is shaking—she doesn't know what she wants. The apple? A few weeks ago, that would have been the obvious answer. Lucy had been so desperate to grow up again, to be an adult and able to make her own decisions. She'd wanted power again.

Now she thinks… she thinks that maybe she's okay, as she is.

-/-

A few days pass. The safe house stirs into a hive of activity as everyone starts packing to leave. They're very nearly done when someone rings the doorbell.

"Shit," Shaun says, when he's peeked through the curtain and seen whoever it is outside. Then he jumps a little when he turns and sees Desmond standing a few feet away, giggling.

"You're not supposed to say shit," Desmond reports. It's funny in a way it never had been when he was a grown up.

"It's the neighbor," Shaun says, in a gloomy, defensive voice, like that should be enough to explain everything.

"Rupert?" Desmond asks.

"Yes," Shaun grumbles. "Probably came to complain about something completely trivial again."

Desmond skips along next to Shaun as he heads to the door, and only stops when Shaun gently pushes him a step or two back, to give himself space to open the door. The two grown ups talk for about a minute, and then Rupert looks down at Desmond and his face spasms into something like a tiny little smile. "I'm actually here for you, Desmond," he says.

"Why?" Shaun asks, in a sharp, protective voice that cheers Desmond immensely.

"I brought him something," Rupert says.

"Why?" Shaun demands, again. But it's too late—Desmond has already crouched down and noticed the pet carrier half hidden behind Rupert's legs. For just half a heartbeat, he doesn't get it. Then he gives a little cry of excitement and darts around the two adults to get to the carrier.

"My puppy!" Desmond cries—and then he looks up at Rupert, abashd. "I mean… obviously not _my _puppy. But I found him!"

"Yes you did," Rupert says. "And that's why I came to see if you want him."

"No," Shaun says at once. "Desmond—"

"_Please!_"

"No, Desmond—you _know _we're moving soon and we don't have room for—"

"But look!" Desmond argues. By now, he's managed to open up the crate and pull out the puppy. It squirms energetically in his arms, twisting around to lick his face. "look, it's so cute! I love him, _please _can we keep him?"

He looks pleadingly at Shaun, who wavers visibly. "I'm just… it—" He brightens. "Let's ask Rebecca."

"Why?" Desmond asks. "You don't wanna say no?"

Shaun flushes a very funny shade of red, and Rupert makes a noise like he's trying not to laugh. Desmond ducks past both of them and goes running into the house, still holding the puppy while he shouts for Rebecca.

By the time Shaun catches up to him, Desmond is crouched over the puppy next to Rebecca, while she fusses over the tiny animal. "So." Shaun stops in the doorway. "I take it that the dog is coming with us?"

"Of course the dog is coming with us," Rebecca says dismissively. Desmond gives Shaun a grin that makes him stick out his tongue in response; Desmond giggles.

"Fine," Shaun sighs. "If it's really that important to you, we can take the dog with us. Alright?"

"Alright!"

-/-

Haytham doesn't ever sleep alone anymore, and it really worries Connor. He'll curl up next to Edward most nights, or Connor, if Edward is too fussy to sleep. And the baby is often fussy, Connor has learned—he likes to have everything his own way.

A lot like Haytham _used _to be. Connor remembers first meeting his father (when they'd been safely in their own time and their own skins). Haytham had been stern, and stiff as an iron bar, absolutely intractable in all things.

Although in all fairness, perhaps Connor has been no less stubborn in his time.

He cannot see any of that stubbornness in Haytham anymore.

One night, when Haytham is curled self consciously in bed beside Connor, he looks up and says—"This is okay? Isn't it? You… you like having me here? You're not tired of me, or angry?"

"No," Connor assures him. "I looked for you for a very long time. I'm just happy to have you here."

"I just…" Haytham lets himself slip sideways against Connor—a good sign or a bad one, it's impossible to say. "I want it to be over. I keep going back there in my head, it's like I can't leave that place, even though I'm here now. Every night I have bad dreams, I feel like I'm being hurt again, and I… I never _used _to be like this. Even though my life there was… bad. I didn't fall apart in my first life, no matter how bad things were. I wasn't messed up like this, I was strong."

Connor considers this for a moment. "Were you happy?" he asks. "In your first life."

"No," Haytham says. "Not… usually. Never for long."

"What about after you came back?"

Haytham looks up at him. His eyes are shining and wet with almost shed tears. "Yes," he says. "Yes, I was… happy more than I was sad. When I was with you and Edward. That's why it was so important to help you get away. That's why I wanted to be taken instead…"

"You had something to lose this time," Connor says. "They took it away, and that hurt."

Haytham gives him a look that could almost have been angry, if it wasn't so pathetic. "How do I make it _stop_?"

"Oh—" Connor winces. "I don't think you do."

"But—it hurts."

"Yes," Connor agrees. "I'm sorry."

Haytham hesitates. Then he hugs Connor hard. "At least it's just me," he says. "I'm _proud _that I let them take me instead of taking you or Edward. I can live with the nightmares. And I can get past them. Just... as long as you're here, I can get better."

"I love you, dad," Connor says softly. Haytham looks at him for a long time. But his frown is gradually fading, and eventually he smiles back.

"I love you too, Connor."


	28. (Part 5)The End

Their new home is nothing special, really. It's a little smaller than the last one, but that's okay, it really is, because it means he's closer to the people he cares about. Also, he has a bunk bed, which is like the coolest kind of bed ever.

And William let him have the top bunk.

Desmond is really starting to like this second childhood. He likes not being afraid, he likes being loved. Maybe things are a little bit harder now. He'll never be quite as healthy as he was the first time around—whatever William had done with the apple has messed his insides up for forever, apparently, and they're never going to catch up to his outsides.

But Desmond is pretty sure he can live with that. He'd trade away his health all over again if it meant getting the family he has now. William, of course. Shaun and Rebecca. Connor and Haytham, and…

Well. He's still not so sure about Lucy. But Lucy doesn't seem sure how to feel about things either, and Desmond keeps catching her on her own in random corners of their new home, thinking. After a few weeks of this, he musters up the courage to ask, "What are you thinking about?"

"Nothing, Desmond," she says without looking at him.

"Fine," he says, hurt. "Okay." He leaves, but goes straight to William. "Lucy's being funny," he reports. "She doesn't want to talk to me, but I think she's really worried about something."

"And?" William says.

"And… she likes you better than she likes me. I thought maybe you could help."

William grins a little, and gestures at Desmond to come sit down next to him on the bottom bunk. Desmond does, leaning against his dad's side. He feels _safe _when William hugs him, and realizes once again just how lucky he is to have this second chance. Once upon a time, being this close to his father would have left him shaking and terrified.

"Why do you want to help her?" he asks.

"What do you mean, why?"

"Well, you don't like her."

"But she's one of us," Desmond insists stubbornly. "Everyone else is happy. You'n me are happy. Connor and Haytham and Edward are happy. Shaun and Rebecca are happy. Even my puppy is happy. But Lucy's sad."

"I guess that's true."

"Can't you help?"

"I wish I could."

"Try?" Desmond begs. "You can do anything."

William hesitates. Desmond thinks he's going to say no. "Let's try together," he says instead.

"But…"

"Yes," William says, nodding to himself. "And let's get Haytham, too. I think maybe we all need to talk."

Desmond trails after William, whining (and hating the sound), until they find Haytham. Haytham thinks it's a great idea for them to go talk to Lucy, so Desmond grudgingly accepts that he's outnumbered, and stops complaining. Edward comes along as well, toddling after Haytham on legs that are just barely strong enough to support him.

"Um…" Lucy almost smiles when she sees all four of them headed toward her, but it's a nervous and uncertain smile that makes her seem _less_ happy. "Hey. What's up?"

"Come on," William says. "Sit down."

"What? Why?"

"We need to talk," Haytham says. He looks just as serious as Desmond remembers him being as an adult. Just lots shorter.

"I don't think we do, actually," Lucy says. "I'm good. Thanks."

"You're sad," Desmond says.

Edward makes a high pitched shrieking noise of disapproval, and lurches forward until he's close enough to wrap his arms around Lucy's legs in a hug. Her smile—just for a second—looks genuine.

"So what is this?" she asks. "An intervention?"

"Support," William says firmly. "Whatever you're going through, we're the ones that are the most likely to understand."

"I guess," Lucy says.

"So come on," William says. He crosses his arms. "What's wrong?"

"I want to grow up," Lucy says. "But the apple… I can't use it, can I? It's dangerous."

"You'll grow up," Haytham says. He smiles like he's laughing, but Desmond doesn't think it's a mean laugh. "It's something children are exceptionally good at."

"But I want to grow up _now_," Lucy insists. "I can't do anything the way I am now. Berg is still out there, if he finds us again—I'd be helpless, again, I'd be—"

"It won't happen," Haytham says.

"Yea? And how do you know that?"

"Because nobody's going to _let _it happen," Haytham says. "We're not adults, but there are plenty of people here that are."

"You don't mind being… being looked after when you should be able to take care of yourself?"

"No," Haytham says, without even a moment's hesitation.

Lucy snorts in disbelief.

"Really," Haytham insists. "Before, when I was an adult, I thought like you do. That doing everything on my own made me strong."

"It does," Lucy insists.

"Maybe. But strength isn't the only important thing."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Desmond pipes up now. "It's better to be weak, and have people around that you can rely on," he says. "Than it is to be the strongest person in the world, but be all by yourself."

Edward squeaks again.

"You trust everyone here," William says. "Don't you?"

"I…" She sighs, and her shoulders slump—it's almost an expression of defeat, except that she looks so relieved to be giving in. "I guess I do."

"So it's okay," Desmond says. And Lucy looks at him, and smiles.

"Yea," she says. "I guess it's all okay."

**-/-**

**Thanks for reading-thanks for your patience.**


End file.
